


Details In The Fabric

by Raptor_Squad



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, BAMF Natasha, Baking, Boys Kissing, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bucky just wants to be able to stand on his own feet, Christmas, Clintasha - Freeform, Darcy is a Saint, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Explicit Language, F/M, Feelsville, Fireworks, Fluff, Hand Feeding, Hurt Steve Rogers, Impromptu Love Confessions, Indirect and direct mentions of depression, JARVIS is a good bro, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Multi, My babies do not fight each other, New Years, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not That Kind of Fix-It, OC's - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Passage of time, Pepper is Also a Saint, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychological Torture, Rating subject to change, Recovered Memories, Robots, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Feels, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve is very sad because Bucky wants nothing to do with him, Stucky - Freeform, Tags Subject to Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The queer therapist is my fave hoenstly, Thor Is Not Stupid, Tony Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart, and cuddles, and suicidal idealogy, brief mentions of possible triggers, but it's very brief, but just understand, cursing, disgusting fluff, established relationships - Freeform, gratuitous fluff, self neglect, so there's self discovery, there's a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptor_Squad/pseuds/Raptor_Squad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most humbling lesson the universe has to teach is this: all things start small. </p><p>Bucky's been out of HYDRA's grasp for two years, he remembers his life, he's making peace with himself, and he's carved his own space in Avengers tower. It's a good life, he thinks. </p><p>The most honest lesson the universe has to teach is this: all things start small. </p><p>Of all people, it's Tony, who posits that maybe Steve isn't as okay as he would have everyone believe. Of all people, it isn't Bucky who realizes that Steve doesn't really smile anymore. </p><p>The most  extraordinary lesson the universe has to teach is this: all things start small. </p><p>It's bits and pieces of hearts lost to war. It's second and third and fourth and fifth chances. It's SteveandBucky and BuckyandSteve. It's them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting Small

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://r-aptorsquad.tumblr.com) where I nightpost meta and upload screenshots of Frenchy enabling me

Bucky doesn’t notice it, is the thing.

As a matter of fact, none of the usual suspects notice it. Normally after Bucky, it’s Wilson, and then Natalia. Those are the Big Three, and everyone on the team has a tendency to pay attention to everyone else, but everyone – Avenger or affiliate – watches Steve. He's their Captain, sure, but sometimes he's still stumbling through the century like a newborn calf.

The thing is, none of the Big Three notice it. Of all people, it’s Tony.

Bucky’s been free of HYDRA for about two years, and in the Tower for about six months, so they’ve all developed a routine. Like on Fridays, everyone available gathers in the media room to watch old movies. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Bruce does yoga in one of the gyms and anyone is welcome to join. Except Tony. Tony is never allowed to join yoga again. Today is Sunday, which means Wilson refuses to join Steve on his daily run – _“It’s supposed to be Sabbath, Rogers!”_ – and is instead insisting on feeding everyone Sunday brunch. Which also means Bucky is his sous chef, because during his recovery he and Wilson would bake and talk. Everyone was the slightest bit more round and plushy by the end of that stint.

So it’s still kind of early, Steve is out running, and The Avengers are trickling into the common kitchen wearing onesie’s and making delighted grabby hands for their designated cups of rocket fuel that Bucky set on the counter. This is their routine. Barton and Natalia drink coffee from mugs with puppies and kittens on them, respectively. Bruce sips tea from a giant mug with the word ‘NOPE’ on the side in big green letters. Tony is positively chugging his coffee from a mug with a picture of Bruce and Pepper superimposed on the side. Dr. Foster and Darcy slip in wearing oversized Thor t-shirts and gratefully accept their coffee in matching mugs that say ‘fuck off’ in elegant cursive.

Really, The Avengers and Friends are all grumpy children in the morning.

Well, except for Wilson, because Wilson has a mug that says ‘Den-Mother,’ and his other favorite mug, which simply has a chibi drawing of their entire fucked-up family on the side. And maybe Thor, but he’s been off world for a while and Bucky hasn’t met him yet, but from what he’s heard, the man is sunshine and badass incarnate.

“Okay so now that I’m slightly more awake, Robocop, what’s up with Cap?” Tony’s tone is uncharacteristically caring and, well, affectionate.

“Whaddya mean?” Bucky doesn’t look up from his task of mixing the truly criminal amount of pancake batter.

“He’s been…off. He seemed kind of...distracted when he was in my workshop the other day. I don’t know, you live with him, has he been acting weird?” Tony shrugs but there is underlying worry still in his eyes.

“I don’t know. We don’t spend a lot of time together,” Bucky frowns at everyone else’s frown. “What?” He stops mixing pancake batter in favor of crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing. If there is something wrong, we’re all going to respect his decision to not talk about it if he doesn’t want to. Aren’t we?” Wilson turns around and plants his hands on his hips. The fact that he is wearing an apron with flowers all over it only makes him more intimidating. When he receives a collective nod he turns back to making the scrambled eggs.

Steve bursts in ten minutes later, nearly dripping in sweat. Clearly, he went for a very long run.

“Jesus, did you run all the way to Canada and then come back? How long have you been out?” Darcy is perched on the stool closest to the fridge, so when Steve goes to grab some water, Darcy opens her arms and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. Darcy had decided, when everyone finally settled in, that she was a hugger, and expected appropriate affection from everyone, and because Darcy is adorable and badass, no one argued. Even Natalia lets her cuddle up.

“Uh. I’m not sure. I couldn’t go back to sleep so I just started my run early,” Steve’s voice, when not yelling over the din of destruction, is soft, like his words are just ghosts passing through. A recent development, now that Bucky is looking closely.

“J, what time did Spangles leave this morning?” Tony doesn't look up from his phone, but it is clear that all of his attention is on Steve. As is everyone else’s.

 _“Captain Rogers left the premises at three-twenty-four am, Sir,”_ JARVIS replies smoothly.

“Steve, what the fuck. It’s damn near noon. You telling me you ran for almost nine hours straight?” Wilson doesn't turn around, but from the tense line of his shoulders, he is not very happy.

“I took breaks,” Steve ducks his head while he slowly edges his way out of the kitchen.

“You’re not staying for brunch?” comes Wilson’s indignant squawk.

“I need a shower.” Steve shakes his head and then he's gone.

Honestly, it wasn’t a strange interaction. Sometimes Steve goes for long runs and then immediately takes a shower and starts working on whatever he works on. The only difference was how much more attention everyone was paying.

“I hate to say this, and I mean I really, really hate to say this, but…Tony is right. Something’s off about him,” Barton pours himself and Natalia a third cup of coffee.

“Children,” Wilson’s voice is hard but he pauses in his egg scrambling to turn back to them.

“Just set the table,” his shoulders sag a little before he turns back to his various pots and pans.

Sunday Brunch is a quiet affair.

* * *

Bucky wasn’t lying, him and Steve really don’t spend much time together. After he got his memories back, after he got his _name_ back, Bucky realized he couldn’t be the guy Steve knew back in the war. He is a mixture now, some parts Bucky Barnes and some parts Winter Soldier, all parts fucked up. He doesn’t avoid Steve per se; he just chooses to carve his own niche out of the twenty first century instead of clinging to Steve’s coattails. Really, he just doesn’t want to disappoint Steve when he realizes that he isn’t the old Bucky, isn’t the best-friend Steve knows. Maybe it came off as a bit of avoidance, but Steve wasn’t making a concentrated effort to be around him either. Bucky’s in his room sitting at his desk, trying to figure Steve out: he should be able to, he knows Steve best in the whole world, or, he did.

“JARVIS?”

_“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”_

“You watch everything right?”

_“My cameras are limited to public spaces and certain rooms in living quarters.”_

“Do you know what Steve is doing right now?” Bucky asks after a moment of hesitation. Of course, he knows where JARVIS’ cameras are in their apartment, and some other rooms he frequents. JARVIS pauses and yeah, it’s still a little weird to be living in a building with a mostly autonomous AI.

_“Captain Rogers is…crying, Sir.” JARVIS replies._

“Is he okay?” Bucky feels his muscles tense and bunch and coil under his skin, his new arm whirring quietly.

 _“My sensors indicate that Captain Rogers is having a mild panic attack,”_ JARVIS says, almost sadly.

“Why haven’t you alerted anyone? Where’s Sam?” Bucky stands up with no idea of where his legs should go, but he should get to Steve, maybe. He was there for Bucky’s entire recovery, giving him space when he needed it and holding him in the middle of the night when the nightmares would get really bad, Bucky can at least see what was wrong.

_“Captain Rogers enabled his privacy protocols during the first one, Sir. I have been unable to alert anyone of his maladies.”_

“Then why are you telling me?” Bucky freezes in the middle of the room, unaware until that point that he was pacing.

 _“Captain Rogers made you his sole benefactor and emergency contact should anything happen to him. He has also instructed me to give you unlimited access to everything, should you ask. Your clearance bypasses his privacy protocols.”_ JARVIS responds solemnly, and Bucky has to take a seat.

“What do you mean by ‘sole benefactor’ exactly, JARVIS?” and Bucky almost doesn’t want to know the answer.

 _“If you would look to the screen, Sir,”_  a clear glass screen pops out of the ceiling silently, pages upon pages of information stacking on top of each other. _“Several weeks ago Captain Rogers met with his lawyers to rewrite his will,”_ a copy of said will with a big red ‘CLASSIFIED’ stamped across it pops up, _“as you can see, in the event of Captain Rogers’ death, you are to receive all of his financial assets, his stock shares, his motorcycle and cars, his military paycheck, his vacation homes in Italy and France, as well as his condo in Brooklyn.”_ JARVIS highlights the passages and then the loopy scrawl of Steve’s signature.

“You said I had unlimited access, right? So show me Steve right now.”

 _“He is on the roof, Sir,”_ JARVIS responds, clearly reluctant.

“And I know you have cameras everywhere up there, so show me Steve.” Bucky doesn’t know why he’s choosing to watch instead of bounding up there like his legs want him to, but he can’t. He can’t barge in on Steve like that, not when he’s pretty certain he is the reason for Steve’s crying. The papers disappear and in their place is a crystal clear live video feed of the roof. There’s not much up there, really, a couple of loose crates and a lounge chair for when Wilson ‘needs to distance himself from all of the stupid’, but somehow, Steve is still hiding. There’s a very well hidden door to the roof beneath a few layers of gravel, with a staircase that leads down into an assuming storage closet on the common room floor. Only the Avengers and Friends have security clearance for the roof. And Steve is…Steve is curled in a ball behind some of the crates, placed strategically so that he is hidden by their shadow. His shoulders are shaking and his face is hidden, but the audio is good enough that Bucky can clearly hear the shuddering breaths forcing their way out of Steve’s body. Bucky only watches for thirty seconds before he swipes the feed off the screen.

“How long has this been going on?” he grits out through clenched teeth. Any harder and he’s pretty sure he’ll crack one or two.

 _“This particular panic attack has immobilized Captain Rogers for the past five minutes and forty-six seconds.”_ JARVIS responds quietly.

“You know what I meant, JARVIS.” Bucky responds gruffly, hands fists at his sides.

A pause.

 _“Captain Rogers has been experiencing these panic attacks for the past seven months, Sir.”_ JARVIS intones, resigned.

“What the fuck, Steve. Why wouldn’t he tell me? Or Sam for that fucking matter, or hell, even Natalia…” Bucky starts pacing around the room, muttering to the walls, trying to figure out the Steve Rogers he encounters daily and rectify him with the man he knew almost a century ago. Before he’s entirely aware of it, night has fallen, and he can vaguely hear Steve puttering around in the kitchen quietly. A few minutes later, Bucky hears the distinctive click-pause-click that means Steve is in his bedroom.

Unlike Bucky, he never locks the door.

The realization floods Bucky’s body with sudden guilt. He’s moving before he’s fully aware of it, and Steve’s door is before him before his brain has caught up. Breath in. Hold. Breathe out. He knocks.

“Come in,” Steve’s voice, soft and quiet, filters through the door.

When Bucky pushes it open, he’s greeted with Steve’s room, same as ever. Queen sized bed pressed into the corner opposite the door, glass drawing desk sitting next to the tall windows on the right. Pair of french doors near the foot of the bed, leading to Steve’s closet. It’s not an overly large room, and with a jolt, Bucky realizes that Steve gave him the master suite in his own apartment and chose to stay in the guest room.

“Bucky?” Steve is sitting at his desk, various glass screens in front of him, but only Steve can see their content. His desk is angled so that natural light can fall across it from Steve’s left, but also so that Steve can see all entrance points in his room.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky steps into the room, just enough to be in the room, but close enough to the door that he can make a hasty retreat. And _goddamn it_ , it shouldn’t be like this, he shouldn’t have an exit route or twelve mapped out in his head. This is _Steve_ , the guy who literally pulled him out of HYDRA rubble and took care of him while he put his brain back together. Steve’s seen him the most vulnerable of anyone in the world and yeah, he’s been avoiding him, and now he feels like shit because Steve cared so much about Bucky that he forgot to care about himself. And fuck, because Bucky is happy, truly happy. He knits at Natalia’s feet while she braids his hair when he’s having a bad day, and the poor woman has more scarves and hats and sweaters than she should but bless her for wearing them all proudly when it’s chilly. He works with Tony on weapons schematics and spars with Barton. He bakes Wilson while they talk about anything and everything under the sun. He happily runs little errands for Dr. Foster and Darcy because they remind him of sisters he can hardly remember. He’s carved his niche, he’s content in his place in the world, and yeah, sometimes he still has nightmares and remembers the really shitty parts of his life, parts that he wishes he could forget, but time is a catalyst unto itself, and every new day that he wakes up and knows his name is a victory. But the entire time he’s been recovering and becoming a person again and becoming a part of this little strange family, he’s left Steve completely alone. And Bucky gets it, he does: Steve wakes up in the twenty-first century and everyone he knows is dead or dying and then his best friend shows up and it’s the only link he has to a life he knows, the only other soul on the planet that remembers _Steve_ as he was before he was Captain America. And Bucky basically said ‘thanks for the help, bud, but I don’t need you anymore,’ then he turned around and fit himself into this group of people like he belonged there, and he does, he belongs there now, he is a fixture in other people’s lives.

But Bucky knows Steve, knows that he’ll never ask more of Bucky than whatever Bucky is willing to give him, he knows that Steve is just happy to see Bucky happy. Selfless idiot.

“Is everything alright?” Steve turns his body slightly, giving Bucky his full attention.

“Yeah,” and Bucky has no idea how to do this, “I just wanted to see if you were okay, you skipped Brunch.” As if that’s the perfect explanation for Bucky’s sudden appearance in Steve’s room.

“Yeah, Bucky, I’m fine,” but he’s not, Bucky can see it, his lips may be pulled into a hint of a smile but his eyes, how has Bucky forgotten what his eyes look like, his eyes are so sad.

“Are you sure? You can tell me anything, you know,” and Steve shouldn’t kind of light up at that pathetic excuse of sympathy. But he does, like somebody just raised the exposure under his skin, and suddenly the room is just the smallest bit brighter. Maybe Bucky can fix this.

“Yeah, Buck. I’m sure,” and then Steve gives him this smile, it’s not a real smile, not the smile Bucky can faintly remember coming from a smaller body and a smaller apartment, but it’s a little smile, it’s something. All things start small; it’s the most humbling lesson the universe has to teach.

“Alright, I’m turning in. Night, Steve,” Bucky pivots on his heel, heading for the door, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other reaching for the knob. He’s halfway in the hallway and the door is half closed behind him when he hears a quiet ‘Night, Bucky’ float over the space between them.

It’s small, but it’s a start.


	2. Pulled Flowers at My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier only by the default of time. So make the return trip to Mecca and start over, find the center and then branch out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can all thank my beta, Frenchy, for being awesome in every way and sending me this chapter back edited, with comments like, "Send me chapter three or I SWEAR TO GAWD". She's graduating high school in a couple of days, so she's a real peach for reading this and editing it in a few hours so I could make my self-imposed Thursday deadline.

A week passes.

Bucky doesn't pester JARVIS for more video or audio logs or anything regarding Steve’s panic attacks. If Steve wants to talk about them, he will; Bucky’s made it known that even though he’s not the same man from before, he is willing to listen and offer support should Steve want it. At the least, he owes Steve, at the most…well; at the most he wants to at least try to be close to that man, that Bucky Barnes from the 1930s. Maybe he’s still standing on shaky feet and he doesn't know how to help; doesn’t know how to go about helping. Maybe by simply wanting to try he’s already inching closer.

It doesn't really seem like Steve wants help though. Bucky knows that Wilson and Natalia are watching Steve with critical eyes, but he’s not acting any differently than he has the past few years. According to the team, Steve’s always been like this. Bucky’s memory is fairly intact, but the thing about memory is that it doesn't always pop up with context, and sometimes all he has are just the impressions of moments. A flash of red lips, the vague scent of vanilla and smoke, a few notes of a current song that reminds Bucky of a song he maybe once danced to. The other thing about memory is that it has a tendency to fade over time, and it’s been a long, long time since Bucky was dancing and drinking and working at the docks. Physically he hasn't aged much, but that’s thanks to his bastardized serum and cryostasis.

Wilson explained it like this: a five year old will remember more of his or her life than someone who is, say, twenty years old, because the twenty year old has experienced more by default of having a pulse. The five year old has fewer memories to recall, so it’s easier to recall all of them.

Memory divided by time: the longer the life lived, the more memories to remember, and the harder it is to actually recall in clarity because it’s all spread so thin. You'll always remember more of yesterday than yesteryear, simply because it’s closer to now. Pair that kind of mental aging to the holes forcibly drilled into his brain at the hands of literal mad scientists and Bucky’s memory isn't _that_ reliable. His memories of Steve are a pair of hands, flitting over a small book, a bony back pressed into his chest, a coughing wheeze in the middle of the night, a hard stare under blonde bangs, a smirk and a laugh at one of Bucky’s horrible jokes. He doesn’t really recall what Steve looked like before he was gifted his new body. He saw the pictures of course, few as they were, but Steve’s old body is like a faint spot at the edges of his vision. If he actually looks, it’s gone, as are most memories pertaining to Steve before they both got the Lab Rat Special.

The memories after Steve’s new body, during the SSR days aren't that clear either, but there are some images. Explosives held in the hands of a smiling man with a mustache, a bowler hat cocked haughtily, bombed out shelters, a circle of tents, a map, and always in the background somewhere, a flash of _redwhiteblue_. To be honest, Bucky doesn't even remember his fall from the train, not the way Steve remembers it, and not the way history remembers it. It’s all impressions, flashes of color and scent and sound all swirling together in his head, like paint down the drain. His fall was cold, windy; whatever sounds he made washed away before they could even reach his own ears.

Before he hit the ground, and the ground was certainly eager to greet him, looking deceptively soft, but before he hit, there was a single technicolor moment of clarity. Nothing existed, nothing mattered, and he was just a spattering of atoms about to return into the embrace of his brethren.

And then he died.

Everything thereafter is a blessedly confusing jumble of barely coherent impressions, but there is always the impression of pain and blood and that’s enough to keep him from looking too hard.

Bucky is sitting in the common room eating a sandwich and scrolling through baby animal videos Natalia sent him on his StarkPad when it happens.

_Come together_

_Right now_

_Over me!_

It’s not the alarm everyone agreed upon, but it’s _Stark_ so it should be expected that he changed the Assemble tone. Bucky’s not an official Avenger, and he’s actually pretty okay with sitting on the sidelines for now; he’s had enough fighting and blood to last a few lifetimes, but should the need arise, he knows he would be able to join the fight without risk. From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Darcy shuffling her way into the common room just as the windows and exits lock down, the dark streak of a quinjet flying away is the last thing Bucky sees before the windows go blackout.

“Hey, Darce,” Bucky picks up his plate, grabs one of the twelve large jars of cheese puffs, and makes his way to the couch that’s more like a California king with armrests.

“Hey Boo, how you do?” Darcy flops herself near Bucky and throws her legs over his lap, leaning against the armrest.

Bucky shrugs, “Where’s Jane?" JARVIS already has all of the news stations up on various screens in front of the couch, with a few security camera feeds. They’re all muted, because no one really cares for the commentary, but they're connected to the comms, so they'll be able to hear what’s really happening.

“In Alaska, gathering samples,” Darcy shrugs back and reaches for the cheese puffs.

There are giant carnivorous plants in Central Park. Could be worse, it has been worse, but there are a lot of moving vines and small pinprick like spikes for teeth.

 _“Call it, Cap.”_ Tony’s voice comes through just as Bucky and Darcy see the quinjet hovering above the center of the park. The bay opens and Bucky can make out the red and gold of Tony’s latest suit, slightly less bulky but no doubt doubly reinforced, along with the sleek new black Kevlar and cargo pants of Wilson’s. Natalia is nowhere to be found, but she’s likely piloting the jet because Bucky can just barely make out the faint glimmer of violet and ink that says Barton is on top of a building nearby.

Steve is in a new suit, one Bucky’s never seen before, all sleek navy blue and black lines of Kevlar on his torso leading down to criminally tight maroon cargo pants, guns at his waist and knives at his thighs, with ammo in a few small pouches at his hips. His gloves are fingerless and maroon, too, and his boots are black with gleaming steel toes, more weapons tucked into holsters near his ankles. A single white star shines from one shoulder, the barest hint of a wing peeking over the edge of the shoulder Bucky can't see as well. Over the width of said impossible shoulders, Bucky can just make out the shape of shining vibranium. It’s not a stealth suit or an outright ‘AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!’ suit; it’s sleek, subtle, and dangerous.

Bruce is standing just to the side of them, leaning against the wall, calm, and shirtless. Stark’s been complaining about pants that will stretch and retract for the longest time, but it seems he finally made something work. The pants are made to look like a mixture of Kevlar and body armor, but Bucky has no disillusions about the fact that they will stretch, especially if Stark had anything to do with their creation.

The Avengers look good.

 _“Hawk, what do you see?”_ Steve’s voice is all hard command and focus, nothing like the soft “morning, Bucky” he delivered this morning on his way down to the gym. Maybe that’s why the rest of the team doesn’t notice anything wrong with him, they’re so used to his mask that they’ve forgotten his face.

 _“Lots of small two-meter creepy crawlies making their way to the perimeter, a few larger five-meter ones already making their way towards Times Square. Can’t see where they’re coming from just yet.”_ Barton’s voice comes through, clearly annoyed.

 _“Widow, Hawk, contain as much as you can to the park. Stark, Times Square. Have JARVIS hack all possible monitors to show people where to go, send out an alert to local police. Get civilians high up in buildings or as far away as possible. Falcon, find the source. Banner, you see anything larger than five-meters, invite the Other Guy to the party.”_ Steve jumps out of the back of the jet, landing solidly on his feet, shield embedded into the earth for stabilization. Not three seconds later, he’s sprinting ahead on towards a group of two-meter class, shield already flying.

 _“I’ve always wanted to get into gardening!”_ Tony says as he flies towards Times Square, blasting an errant five-meter plant on his way.

The fight doesn’t seem like it’s going to be lengthy, but it will be intense. They’re always intense. Minutes pass, Bucky’s eyes flit from screen to screen, keeping a general eye on everyone, squeezing Darcy’s ankle whenever someone gets hit particularly hard with a vine or comes this close to getting a limb bitten off by a slimy green maw.

Giant carnivorous plants. Seriously.

 _“Times Square is clear. NYPD is handling it, heading back. We got a source yet?”_ Tony sounds just the slightest bit winded, but Bucky saw him get caught in some very large vines and blast his way out.

 _“Center of the park, I think; lotta movement there. Might wanna invite the Other Guy, I’m seeing something that is definitely over five-meters. Ugh, this is so gross.”_ Wilson says right before he banks left hard, zipping towards the center, guns blazing.

 _“I’m heading in, let’s find out how to-,”_ Steve’s voice cuts off abruptly. Bucky’s eyes are jumping from screen to screen trying to find him but the camera angles aren’t good.

“JARVIS! Where’s Steve?”

 _“I am unaware, Sir,”_ JARVIS sounds honestly chagrined.

 _“Cap!”_ a pause.

 _“Rogers?”_ no response.

 _“Goddamit, Steve, if you got eaten by a plant I’m going to_ kill _you!”_ Nothing.

 _“Fuck this,”_ Bucky sees Wilson fly straight above the heart of Central Park, tuck his wings, and dive-bomb his body into the middle of the fray. He’s not under tree cover for a minute before an inhuman roar is heard and the Hulk is seen bursting from the trees, the limp body of Steve Rogers cradled in his arms.

 _“Banner’s got him, let’s finish this NOW.”_ Tony sounds absolutely furious and Bucky can see the rapid fire of repulsors and Stark’s own special brand of baby missiles.

Bucky hardly pays attention to the rest of the battle, which is admittedly, not very long. He knows, vaguely, that there is an extremely remorseful botanist involved, and that no one was harmed aside from Steve. He also knows that the Hulk carried Steve all the way back to the Tower, leaving the rest of the team to deal with the carnivorous plants. He knows, acutely, that Steve is in the Avengers-Only medical bay, and his feet are carrying him down there before he’s aware of leaving the common room. Anxiety is a fugue state of familiar pain; let it come and let it pass and understand that it will return. When he bursts in, Steve is still unconscious, which is very worrying, and Bruce is hovering with a pinched look on his face, which is even _more_ worrying.

“Bruce.” He fixes the doctor with a hard stare, refuses to show how existentially frightened he is that something is wrong with Steve; how _terrified_ he is that it’s too late to fix whatever is clearly broken between them. It didn’t use to be like this and it shouldn’t, not now, not when they’ve gone through so much bullshit, individually and together, to get to this point. They hold gazes for a moment before Bruce gives in with a sigh.

“You’re not going to like it. Let’s wait for the others, though, they should be here in a moment.” Not ten seconds later, the team is bursting in, all still in their uniforms, stony expressions on their faces.

“First, I’d like to remind everyone that I body slammed Loki with one hand. Second, I’d like to remind everyone that _I body slammed Loki with one hand_. And third, _Tony_ ,” Bruce pins the slightly-taller-due-to-his-suit man with a faintly green stare, “I lifted Loki, an alien prince, with one hand, and tossed him around like a _rag doll_.” The room is very still and very quiet for a moment. Seemingly satisfied with the amount of fear he instilled in his teammates, Bruce continues.

“Steve wasn’t hit with anything prior to falling unconscious. At least, nothing I know as of yet. I’m still waiting on the tox-screen. It would appear that a vine wrapped around his torso and squeezed after he went down, depleting the supply of oxygen to his brain and breaking a few ribs, but he'll heal in a few days. From the scans, there’s no sustained brain damage, but I’m going to monitor him. It appears that Steve, the literal epitome of human health, passed out due to a small myriad of common ailments.” Bruce picks up a StarkPad, which, presumably, has Steve’s vitals on it.

“Low blood sugar, low white blood cell count, low blood pressure, low iron…the point is this: Steve’s body can’t currently sustain itself. I’m waiting on an IV to get his vitals back to normal and he should be waking up soon after. I suggest you all get changed and eat something and don’t plot.” Bruce turns his back, dismissing them, but Bucky stays.

“It’s not going to help anything standing in the corner glaring at his unconscious body,” Bruce doesn’t even look up from the StarkPad. Bucky opens his mouth to protest and maybe instill a bit of fear himself, but Bruce cuts him off before the first syllable comes out.

“But…I think he’s woken up alone enough times already, so I’ll let the nurses know you’re staying,” Bruce gives Bucky a meaningful look, the word alone hitting him like a slap.

He knows a nurse entered the room after Steve woke up in this century.

He knows Wilson was in the hospital room after The Fall.

He knows that you can be alone in more ways than physically; he has experienced it countless times over years he hardly recalls. But he remembers that waking up alone, in a room full of people, gave a bone-deep chill that turned his tongue to ash and his blood to ice. Waking up was almost always as painful as being put down.

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier only by the default of time. So make the return trip to Mecca and start over, find the center and then branch out again._

Bucky grabs a chair and pulls it over to Steve’s right side, a fleeting image of a small boy, curled up and unconscious, a doctor laying a heavy hand on his shoulder, the words ‘I’m sorry’, the anxiety of another wait. He’s done this before. The thought isn’t comforting, despite the certainty that Steve will wake up this time. Bucky waits.

The part of him that just won’t forget his training registers. On some alternate plane of existence, the others come and go individually in their civilian clothes. His mind acknowledges Stark’s ceaseless chatter about _getting JARVIS to watch him at all times because it’s clear the man has absolutely no sense of self-preservation_ and Natalia’s calming _do not blame yourself for not seeing this coming, James. He is not a spy, but he is good at keeping secrets_. Barton stands in the doorway and says nothing, but his presence is felt and appreciated for what it’s worth. Wilson does enter, but says nothing for six minutes. He moves to Steve’s other side, brushes stubborn bangs away from his forehead, and sighs quietly to himself. It’s Wilson’s words that register in Bucky’s present mind.

“I’m so sorry Steve.” Wilson presses his fingers to Steve’s wrist: checking his pulse despite the perfectly functional heart monitor beeping quietly in the background.

“Wilson,” Bucky’s voice is a bit scratchy from disuse, but it’s enough. Wilson doesn't move, doesn't remove his eyes from Steve’s face or his hand from Steve’s wrist, but it’s clear he heard.

“How do I fix this?” it’s flat and tastes like acid coming out of Bucky’s mouth, but he has to admit that this is, at least partially, his fault. Or at least, he feels responsible. Bucky’s not stupid; brainwashed ex-spy-slash-assassin-slash-fist-of-HYDRA, yes, but not stupid. There’s only one reason Steve’s body would collapse and fail on him, and _that’s_ on Steve, because _Steve_ wasn’t taking proper care of himself. But Bucky is filled with could’ve and should’ve. If for no other reason than to thank Steve for taking care of him during those rough months in Wilson’s home, for patiently waiting outside the bathroom when Bucky couldn’t keep a meal down, for hugging him when the nightmares got bad and he needed something soft to remind him that he wasn’t there anymore. Steve did so much for him and Bucky owes him this. At the very least.

“This isn’t your fault, Barnes, and he’s not a broken doll,” Wilson responds calmly, not moving an inch from where he is on the other side of Steve’s bed. Bucky wants to shake him.

“No he isn’t, but there is clearly something broken here and I owe him the effort.”

“God, you two are meant for each other,” Wilson doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. Bucky doesn’t know how to feel. He’s moving on autopilot until Steve’s eyes open.

“When we were in some random motel in Germany, I asked Steve why he was so determined to chase down the man who tried to kill him. You know what he said?” Wilson’s eyes move to meet Bucky’s and there’s an emotion there, some unnamed anguish borne from the blackest pits of sorrow and love.

“He said that not only did he owe you the effort for all the time you spent taking care of him growing up, but that-” a quiet groan cuts Wilson off and Steve’s heart monitor picks up just the slightest bit. Not two seconds later Steve’s eyes pop open with the kind of wild sharpness of someone bathed too often in blood and battle.

Steve doesn’t know where he is, which means he’s in fight or flight mode until he can assess the situation and act accordingly.

“Your name is Steve Rogers. It’s 2017. You’re in an infirmary in Avengers Tower, New York City,” Wilson parrots off methodically and calmly, hand still pressed to Steve’s wrist. Bucky recognizes the gesture from all of the nights when he woke up and didn’t know anything. So that’s where Steve picked it up. Bucky wonders if Steve learned it from observation or from other moments just like this; if Steve’s woken up screaming and crying and needing someone to reassure him of when he is.

Not knowing is a knife in Bucky’s chest.

It takes a couple minutes of Wilson’s gentle coaxing for Steve’s heart rate to return to normal, but they get there. Steve’s eyes flick over to Bucky and even though he’s hooked up to wires and there’s a couple IVs dripping nutritional fluids into his too pale skin, he manages a brief but _blinding_ smile at Bucky’s presence.

“Wha happened?” and Steve sounds so young and innocent just then, like the burdens of the world have never been on his shoulders.

“You passed out in Central Park, man. How’re you feelin?” And _this_ is why Bucky appreciates Wilson so, so much, because he doesn’t baby anyone but still maintains an air of kind tenderness.

“Right, big plants. Wanted’ta eat me,” Steve tries to raise his arm to maybe brush at his hair or rub at his jaw, but he notices all of the tubes sticking out of his hand and inner elbow and pauses with a confused frown.

“Ouchie…” Steve mumbles before dropping his hand and head back onto the bed heavily with a pained groan.

“You okay there, big guy?” Wilson looks a little worried now. He shoots a look to Bucky that screams _this is not how this was supposed to go_. Bucky looks to Wilson, then to the door, already getting up to sit on the side of Steve’s bed. The unspoken hint is taken, and Wilson makes for the door, presumably to find Bruce or a nurse or someone.

“Hey there, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs after he clears his throat. He brushes back Steve’s bangs and then reaches for Steve’s other wrist, pressing his fingers into the base of his palm gently. The smile Steve gives Bucky in return is beatific and acts like a punch to Bucky’s long-forgotten heart. How could he forget that Steve could look like this? How could he forget the utter _joy_ in making Steve Rogers smile?

“Y’haven’t called me ‘Stevie’ in years,” Steve mumbles out through mostly closed lips and completely closed eyelids. And that shouldn’t really hurt, but it does, in the visceral way that good things sometimes do. It’s a different kind of trigger, it doesn’t set off alarm bells or panic like a lot of things used to, instead it just hurts in a breath-stealing, tear-prickling, heart-shattering way; it hurts like a reminder of loneliness or sorrow.

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier only by the default of time. So make the return trip to Mecca and start over, find the center and then –_

“How’re you feelin’, Steve?” the words feel forced but Bucky knows that this won’t be easy, not if he intends to follow through. It takes a minute, but Steve opens his eyes just the slightest bit and his lips twitch.

“I dunno, Buck…my chest kinda hurts…like…like ice pumped through my veins…” Steve slurs out at first, speech all sloppy and Brooklyn accent coming through, but then his eyes get real big and scared and anxious and Bucky can only just make out Steve’s “oh no” breathed out through unmoving lips. And then Steve is shaking and gasping and his heartbeat is way too fast and – Steve is having a panic attack.

“JARVIS, what do I do?” Bucky moves his hand to grip Steve’s hand and press it to his own chest, forcing his breaths to stabilize and deepen.

_“My observation of Captain Rogers’ behavior and an internet search suggests-“_

“Less politeness, more clear instruction!” Bucky bites out between clenched teeth wondering where the fuck Wilson and Bruce are.

 _“Ground him through touch and sound. Compel Captain Rogers to match your breath. He is reacting to trauma induced by his freeze and having a flashback, Sir.”_ By the tone of his disembodied voice, it’s clear that this is not the first time Steve’s had a panic attack due to his memories just before he went unconscious in the ice.

“Steve, Stevie, hey, it’s okay. You’re warm, okay? Breathe with me Stevie, nice and deep. Good, good boy, now let it go. Again, good Steve, great. Come on buddy, I got you, I got you, I promise,” Steve’s chest is still heaving a bit, but his heartbeat is slowing down and his eyes don’t look so frightened as they match breaths.

If this is what Steve looked and felt like right before the world closed in on him then yeah, _yeah_ , Bucky kind of gets it now. He thinks about what he saw on the rooftop a week ago and he realizes with frightening clarity that Steve has dealt with attacks like this and worse for the past seven months. All by himself, no one to coax him into matching breaths or utter senseless promises, no one to talk him down into his own mind again. Steve’s been carrying this by himself for who knows how long; JARVIS didn't see him before they moved in. This could’ve been going on ever since Steve woke up in this brave new world, and no one knows.

Except Bucky, now.

“Come on back to me, Stevie. There ya go, pal.” It’s another minute before Steve is settled again, breaths deepening further into the cadence of sleep. Bucky doesn’t move, just sits on the edge of Steve’s bed, fingers pressed into his wrist, waiting for Wilson to return with someone. Two minutes later, Bruce and Tony walk into the room flanked by Natalia and Wilson.

“He okay?” Wilson leans against the wall near the door, feigned relaxation written in every line of his too-tense muscles. Bucky nods once in response, a short, jerky movement, eyes not straying from Steve for more than a few seconds. Bruce moves to check Steve’s vitals and fluids, a semi-permanent crease between his brows. Natalia takes the seat Bucky vacated, the picture of ease, and if he hadn’t taught her the tricks, he would’ve missed the slight purse of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes.

“Is anyone interested in explaining why the audio and video feeds for this room and the corridor cut out for about six minutes?” Tony crosses his arms over his chest, a slight scowl making a home on his lips, but his eyes keep flickering over Steve, so Bucky doesn’t allow annoyance to come over him. They’re all just worried.

“Not particularly, no.” Bucky responds calmly from his perch, reaching up absentmindedly to brush Steve’s stubborn bangs out of his face.

“Do the words ‘possible security breach’ mean nothing to you?” Tony glares, irritated. Bucky doesn’t let it get to him.

“Do the words ‘Winter Soldier’ mean nothing to you? Just because I wasn’t out there fighting flesh-eating plants doesn’t mean I don’t still know how to rip someone apart at the seams.” Bucky’s voice does not waver or take on the robotic tone of the Asset, and he’s two-years out of the break in his programming, but he feels _victorious_.

“I don’t like not-knowing things, especially things pertaining to _my tower or my teammates_. Give me something, Barnes.” Tony’s expression softens, but everything else tenses up; his hands clench and his posture straightens. Bucky drags his eyes away from Steve’s sleeping face – so peaceful and innocent and a selfish part of Bucky wishes Steve never went to war – and stares at Tony. He doesn’t really know when Steve and Tony became so close, but they clearly have formed some kind of bond. Enough that Tony will worry over him; enough that Steve will gift Tony with watercolor portraits of Bruce and Pepper. The room is tense and Steve’s heart monitor mocks them all with its steady repetitions.

“Please don’t make me use the override codes,” Tony says softly a couple minutes later. “JARVIS, enable privacy protocols, clearance Barnes, James, specification, Tenebris. Delete the audio for the next ten minutes,” Bucky rolls his shoulders, straightens his spine, and does not break eye contact with Tony the whole time he speaks. Yeah, he’s going there. Nothing like using a man’s own creation against him. It’s the most honest form of warfare.

 _“Certainly, Sergeant Barnes,”_ JARVIS replies smoothly.

“Let me make something abundantly clear, if any of the next words out of my mouth leave the minds of the Avengers, blood will be shed. Natalia will fill Barton and Thor in. But anyone else? I will know, and I do not give a goddamn if I will lose, _I will tear you apart on my way down_. Am I clear?” Bucky doesn’t look at any of them, doesn’t even raise his voice, just continues stroking one finger along Steve’s pulse point and counting his freckles.

“Steve’s been having panic attacks for, as far as JARVIS knows, the entire time we’ve been living here, maybe longer. After Wilson left to get Bruce, he had a, comparatively, very minor one. A week ago, after he ran for nine hours and missed brunch, I asked JARVIS where Steve was, and that’s when I found out. I don’t know anything else; he hasn’t been acting off or different lately. I don’t know how to fix this, and I am _violating_ Steve’s privacy to tell you this, but we need to fix this,” Bucky lets out a silent sigh when he’s finished.

“Fuck.” Wilson’s entire body goes lax, likely due to some mild form of shock. Bucky can read the lines of remorse and guilt lining his face, and he gets it, can sympathize because he’s in the exact same boat.

“We’re not going to stand around and speak over his sleeping body. Later,” Bruce says firmly before opening a file on the tablet containing Steve’s medical chart. “Tox-screen just came back. Looks like the Venus flytrap that was holding him before I grabbed him had some kind of chemical in its vine. Based on the compound, it’s meant to immobilize its prey and render it unconscious, which is similar to venom found in some snakes. I’m not a botanist, but I’ll get an antidote and some antibiotics in here just in case, but I suspect his body will metabolize and burn it all out in a few hours. We’ll keep him overnight for observation. I’m assuming you’re staying here, Bucky, but the rest of you,” Bruce meets everyone else’s eyes, “go back upstairs, get some rest or something. We’ll talk later, okay?” Bruce moves to Steve’s side, opposite Bucky, and pats his arm gently before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

It’s a few minutes before everyone else follows, all of them patting Bucky or Steve as they leave, but eventually the room is quiet again, save for the breaths of two super-soldiers.

 _“Sergeant Barnes, I have deleted the audio per your request. If you plan to stay here overnight, might I recommend you place an order for dinner, as well as allow me to have a blanket and pillow delivered,”_ JARVIS says quietly.

“I’m not really hungry, JARVIS, but I’ll take that blanket and pillow. You can also disable the privacy protocols, I’m sure Tony is halfway to losing his mind not being able to see a room in his own tower,” Bucky pulls his chair closer to Steve’s bed, not removing his hand from Steve’s wrist, feeling the warmth of Steve’s skin.

 _“Your items will arrive in approximately five minutes. Privacy protocols disabled. I feel it prudent that you are aware that Sir intends to play the live audio and video feed of this room in his workshop.”_ JARVIS replies succinctly.

“Enable privacy protocols, specification: Sonus” Bucky says without missing a beat. Really, he expects no less from Tony, and would probably be disappointed if he didn’t try to nose his way into everything. Doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy though.

“Tell Tony that he’s a nosy son of a bitch,” Bucky leans back in his chair, just a bit, just enough to settle in for the night.

“Of course, Sir” and damn JARVIS sounds pleased. Looking at him now, Bucky notices the little frown lines framing Steve’s mouth, smoothed out minimally by the ease of sleep; the ghostly pallor of his skin, not at all a trick of the light; the sharpness of his cheekbones, silent punctuation that screams _‘this has been going on for months!’_

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier only by the default of time. So make the return trip to Mecca and start over –_

When the blanket and pillow come, Bucky wordlessly accepts them from the nurse, and then lays the blanket over Steve. The instinct to keep Steve as warm and comfortable as possible is borne from long-suffering nights sitting at Steve’s bedside, fearing the inevitable, listening to labored breaths and counting the always too-long spaces between each one. He’ll probably overheat, but Bucky doesn’t care, he’s almost a hundred-percent certain that Steve would prefer warmth to a chill any day. The pillow rests at the small of Bucky’s back, a small comfort. The room is cold and sterile, in the way only hospitals are, but Bucky doesn’t react. A year ago, maybe, but not now, he’s come so far, and now he’s going to go further. He’s managed to take care of himself, nightmares and moments of stilting fear now fewer and farther between. Now it’s time to take another part of himself back; the part that cares for Steve the way Steve has always cared about him. Steve is stock-still on the bed, so different from the boy and young man Bucky knew, because Steve used to shift a lot, used to fight for comfort that his bad back couldn’t spare. Now he is motionless, years of health at the cost of war molding him into a statue fit for a museum.

The thought leaves a note of bitterness on Bucky’s tongue.

Bucky knows where the cameras are in this room, one facing the door, one facing the window, one facing the lone bed, and one facing the small bathroom adjacent to the bed, separated by a curtain. He’s angled appropriately so that his face is not visible, or, more importantly, his mouth. Stark can’t hear because of the protocols, but he can see, and Bucky wouldn’t put it past him to try to get JARVIS to read his lips and create subtitles.

“What are we doing, Steve? I don’t…I don’t know what it is that’s broken between us. I thought we were doing okay. Quiet mornings in our apartment, breakfast, if I manage to wake up before you, breakfast anyway because you love making French toast. Passing books back and forth: I heard you laughing at _Fight Club_ and I know you heard me crying at _The Fault in Our Stars_. Late night wandering if both of us just can’t sleep, finding little new places that display old things, like that weird craft store with records and an entire bookshelf of buttons. Art Asylum, I think. You fell in love with the boxes of photograph slides, little pieces of history that history forgot, and you laughed when you found me on the floor surrounded by balls of yarn contemplating the sizes of knitting needles,” a quiet laughsob crawls its way out of Bucky’s throat.

“Ya know, I ran for so long because I didn’t want any of the bullshit and _evil_ swimming around in my head to touch you. And now look at us. God, Stevie, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. We’re gonna – we’re gonna figure this out. I promise. We’ll go back to that weird craft store and I’ll buy you all of the photograph slides you want, we’ll cover the walls in other people’s memories. I’ll teach you how to cook something besides breakfast and how to knit and I’ll wear the horrible sweater you try to make me because I know the first thing you’re gonna make is a sweater for me.” Bucky cuts himself off then, all other words stuck in his throat.

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier only by the default of time. So make the return trip –_

“I promise you, Stevie, everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll find our way back to each other so you’ll never have to keep these things to yourself again.” Bucky clenches his fingers around Steve’s wrist just the slightest bit harder, needing the reassurance of feeling his pulse. Bucky doesn’t speak for the rest of the night. He dozes off around four a.m. only to startle awake at six a.m., blinking exhaustion out of his eyes. And then he hears it, a slight groan from just beside him.

“Ugh…”

“Steve?” Bucky shoots up, ignoring the pain in his neck, to lean over him.

“Bu…Bucky? Ugh, did I make Bruce angry? I feel like I got smashed,” Steve mumbles out through a grimace, his eyes flickering open and then close again. Bucky can’t help himself, he bursts out into – only slightly hysterical – laughter.

“Nah, buddy, you passed out in Central Park. One of the giant plants squeezed you a little too hard while you were down,” Bucky words it carefully, part of him hoping that Steve will understand, another part hoping that Steve’s still too out of it. He didn’t have enough time last night to think of a way to bring it up.

How do you ask your best friend why he isn’t eating? Or sleeping? How do you ask the man who helped piece you back together when he started shattering into so many pieces? There’s no regulation for this kind of thing, no guidebook on how to be a good friend. All Bucky has are his memories – intact but so far in the past they’re hardly applicable to the people they are now – and his intuition, which is, at the best of times, cautious, and the worst of times, fearful. He has no idea how to do this, except honestly. Seems like a good plan.

“I passed out?” Steve asks, clearly confused.

“Yeah, kid. I’ll let Bruce tell you all about it. How’s ‘bout I get us some breakfast in the meantime?” Bucky’s already moving to stand up, but Steve’s sudden grip on his wrist halts his movements. He forgot that he fell asleep with their hands entwined.

“Is everyone else okay? Did we stop the plants? Figure out the source?” Steve’s questions are automatic, his eyes are still a little bleary and his grip is just this side of weak, and Bucky wants to low key throttle him for still caring more about the rest of the world when he’s the one in the hospital bed with at least three needles feeding into his skin.

But he doesn’t, because his therapist told him that while it is important to be angry, while it is important to release his frustrations – in a healthy outlet, of course – it is also important to be sympathetic.

_“It’s so easy to be angry, James. It’s a fire lit under your skin and we, all of us, are so eager to burn. It is cleansing in its own right, of course, but if you burn too often, you’ll forget how to be room temperature.”_

His therapist, Marissa, takes none of his shit and had him crying within his second session, even though he didn’t start talking until his fourth, so he trusts her opinion on these things.

“Yeah, buddy, everyone’s fine. You just lie there and wait for Bruce, kay? I’ll be back in a few minutes, promise,” because Bucky can still see the smallest hint of anxiety crawling along Steve’s features and he wants to smooth every crease with his thumb, wants to make Steve smile so much he forgets what it is to frown. When Steve nods and closes his eyes, Bucky makes his way out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.

There are several suites on this floor, on the off chance that more than one of the team needs medical attention at any given time, and a few surgical suites along with a supply closet stocked to the nines, but Bucky’s going for the kitchen near the elevator where a lounge-like waiting room sits abandoned, save for the lone figure of one Sam Wilson, who is currently hunched over in sleep. He doesn’t move when Bucky opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients for oatmeal and fruit. Bucky prepares breakfast as quietly as he can, making a large pot of coffee for Wilson, when he wakes, and the other Avengers when they inevitably come back to visit. He pours Steve a simple green tea, and then pours another cup of orange juice. He sets everything onto a tray he finds in a cupboard next to a muffin tin and then, silently, walks back to Steve’s room.

 _“Sir, Dr. Banner is currently with Captain Rogers explaining his ailments.”_ JARVIS says quietly just as Bucky is a door away from Steve’s room. Bucky squares his shoulders but keeps his stance relaxed, and then knocks gently on the door with his right hand.

“Come on in, Bucky, I just finished,” Bruce gives Bucky a tired smile, bags under his eyes. There’s a rolling tray to the side of Steve’s bed, and Bucky places breakfast on it before moving it over Steve’s lap. He’s propped against his pillows, and Bucky absently shoves the pillow on his chair behind Steve’s head while sitting on the edge of the bed. Bruce leaves a moment later after doing a final check on Steve’s vitals and the IV drips. Steve reaches for the tea first, eyes not leaving Bucky’s as he takes a small sip.

“Buck – ” Steve starts, but Bucky waves his metal hand to cut him off and instead reaches for the spoon.

“Later, okay? Everyone will be coming down to see you in a bit. For now, just eat and let the medicine do its job,” and then, in a move he wasn’t even planning to do until it was already done, Bucky grabs the spoon and scoops some oatmeal onto it with his right hand. He holds it up to Steve’s mouth, not breaking eye contact and not outwardly acknowledging the pure shock and disbelief on Steve’s face.

“I can feed myself,” Steve mumbles quietly even though he leans forward a little to accept the mush into his mouth.

“I know you can, but I want to. I was really worried, Stevie.” Bucky tries to say it so that it doesn't sound like a guilt trip, because he knows how Steve’s mind works. He’s proved right when he sees this look enter Steve’s eyes, and it’s so familiar Bucky doesn't know how he missed the signs because Steve looks like the entire world is weighing him down. Steve’s about to say _‘I'm sorry, Buck’_ but he doesn't get the chance because another spoon of oatmeal is being shoved in his face.

“Don't apologize, Steve,” and Bucky leaves it at that because he can't say this is my fault, anyway because it’s only half true, and this line of conversation is too heavy for oatmeal and tea. So Bucky sits cross-legged on Steve’s bed and hand feeds him oatmeal and fruit for a while. JARVIS alerts them quietly that Wilson is approaching, and Bucky slips into his chair again, rolling table moved to the side, and Steve’s eyes never leaving his face. When Wilson enters the room, he makes directly for Steve, a small grin on his face, and Bucky leaves quietly to give them a moment. He heads for the elevator, a shower and a change of clothes on his mind, and maybe he'll go to the roof and scream for a while, because there’s something bubbling in his chest; something between anguish and elation because Steve is still Steve even though he’s not. And Bucky’s still Bucky even though he’s not, and – They'll get there.

But first, Bucky is going to shower and then, he’s going to scream.

* * *

 Bucky, in fresh pair of jeans and a white tee, climbs his way onto the roof not five minutes after his two-minute shower. It’s not quiet this high up; the wind howls constantly, but it’s peaceful in the way most quiet places aren’t. Churches, graveyards, libraries, they’re all quiet places but they weigh heavily with something intrinsically _lost_. Bucky doesn't know why, but he likes standing on rooftops, letting the wind carry away words he can’t keep in his head. He won’t stay for long, he doesn’t want to make Steve worry, but he can spare a few minutes to think. Bruce said that the team would talk later, and Bucky is sure that Tony or someone is planning the secret meeting this very moment, but it feels too much like a betrayal. Like Bucky took this one dark corner of Steve’s heart and shined a spotlight on it while simultaneously placing it under the collective microscopic eye of the Avengers. Steve had set his privacy protocols so that Bucky, and _only_ Bucky, could access everything, good and bad, should he need to or have cause to. He could confront Steve about it, lay it all on the table, and talk it through like the geriatrics they are. He could do that and Steve would let him, hell, Steve would be happy knowing that Bucky cared enough to –

Fuck. Steve doesn’t think Bucky cares about him. And Steve won’t say anything because, _fuck_ , because he’s probably convinced that this is Bucky’s choice: that Bucky has distanced himself from Steve because he doesn’t want him anymore – doesn’t _need_ him anymore. That’s why Steve wasn’t making a concentrated effort, he was trying to give Bucky space because – _oh shit_. And now the pieces are slowly falling into place and Bucky feels awful because he was just trying to protect Steve from the black rage and insanity of his head, just trying to swim to shore on his own, if only to prove that he could.

And Steve – Steve gave Bucky the lifejacket. Steve found him in the rubble of a HYDRA base in Romania and instead of letting Bucky just die like he deserved, Steve reached out his big bloodied hand and said _“You saved me from drowning when you had no reason to; I have every reason for this.”_ Steve tossed him a literal lifesaver, put up with his kicking and screaming, kept his hands visible when Bucky pulled a gun on him in the middle of the night, and gave Bucky space. And Bucky found his sea-legs, learned how to tread water until he could swim and then Bucky took off determined to make it back to civilization.

But Bucky was so focused on the shine of being a person again that he left Steve stranded on the island, alone.

It’s a horrible revelation and Bucky does let out a little scream because this was not his intent. He thought Steve had a _home_ here, with his new team of strange but endearing people, he thought that Steve would be better off without such a dark shadow staining his existence. He forgot – or chose to ignore – the fact that Steve had only been unfrozen for almost a year before Bucky showed up, forgot that Steve spent almost that entire time throwing himself into the line of fire, forgot that Steve was running from his own lonely reality.

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and decades, growing heavier –_

God, Bucky was wrong. He was so wrong and so stupid because Steve’s still that skinny kid from Brooklyn who had a big mouth and an even bigger heart who secretly anguished over his displacement in the world. Bucky looks out over the skyline, clouds approaching from the east, wind picking up from the north, and the sun trying so hard to shine despite it all. He stands there for a moment, lets his remorse anchor him to the monolith of his home, and then he releases a breath, relaxes his stance, and goes back the way he came.

* * *

 Steve is sitting in the lounge of the medical wing when Bucky steps out of the elevator. He’s got an IV attached to his right arm, and Natalia is sitting with him, smiling softly at something Steve says. He looks up when Bucky enters, and gives him a half-hearted grin that Bucky returns, but they’re all forced movements of muscle. Bucky’s made his choice.

“James,” Natalia nods as she gets up and stretches, movements only slightly exaggerated. He tilts his head in her direction, keeping his gaze on Steve, who is only minimally fidgeting under the weight of his stare. They switch places silently, Steve looking more nervous when the elevator doors close behind Natalia. They sit in silence for a while, Bucky staring at Steve and Steve staring at his hands in his lap.

His skin has some color back, the lines on his face have smoothed out a bit, but his cheekbones are still jutting out painfully and now that he’s in regular clothes, Bucky can see the sharp lines of Steve’s collar bones.

“What’s going on, Steve?” Bucky asks as gently as he can, leaning sideways against the couch and resting his arm on the back, leaning his head onto his propped up left hand.

“Whaddya mean, Buck?” Steve responds quietly, still fidgeting with his fingers. And Bucky’s got _options_ for how he goes about this. He’s already decided on a gentle confrontation, but what can he say? The truth, Bucky has found, is much more difficult to face than any mixture of beautiful lies.

“How come you’re not eating?” he asks instead, because he’s still working things through in his head. Steve falters here; he likely wasn’t expecting that to come out of Bucky’s mouth. But he had to have known, on some level, that Bucky would find out, didn’t he? Or maybe – and the thought is acid on his tongue – Steve didn’t think Bucky would give a damn. Steve pauses before taking a breath and steadying his hands, and Bucky is stupidly proud of his forbearance. His heart gives a strange new kick as he watches Steve steel himself.

“It’s not what you think, Buck. I just…forget sometimes. Or I’m just not hungry.” Steve shrugs.

“Steve, you metabolize at least five times as fast as a regular human, you should be hungry all of the time. I’m hungry all the time and my serum’s less potent than yours,” Bucky smiles anyway, because he knows Steve isn’t lying to him, and he really is that much of a dope. Steve shrugs again, and Bucky makes a decision.

“Come ‘ere you big lug,” he reaches out with his right hand, wraps it gingerly around Steve’s shoulder and pulls him in slowly, and gives him plenty of time to pull away or say no. He doesn’t, so Bucky brings his left arm into the equation, and wraps Steve in a gentle hug.

“Gotta take better care of yourself, Stevie,” Bucky lets the endearment slip through his lips with confidence and care, because Steve deserves both in spades.

“I- I’m sorry, Bucky, I, uh, I will,” Steve moves haltingly, likes he’s unsure if he’s supposed to reciprocate or not.

“Nah, pal, you suck at it. You’re fired,” Bucky chuckles into Steve’s bangs and feels his shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m better at it than you anyway.”

“You shouldn’t hafta take care of me, ‘m a grown man and you’re busy ‘nyways,” Steve mumbles into the cloth between his shoulder and his neck and yeah, that hurt, but in the way only true things do.

_Guilt is a feather carried over miles and –_

“I’ve always got time for my best fella, Steve,” Bucky whispers into his ear, and feels his shoulders slump in exhausted acceptance.

“Yeah?” Steve breathes out.

“Yeah, kid. You ‘nd me. End of the line and all that jazz,” Bucky grips a little harder, still mindful of the IV, but he figures he’ll be the lifejacket now and cover Steve.

_Guilt is a feather –_

So shed the weight and ease the burden. Bucky’s got endless paths ahead; he’s found his way back to the start and he’ll find his way back over and over again if that’s what it takes. But he’ll start here, with compassion and Steve safe in his arms, because Bucky’s learned, over forays into the world and long conversations with Wilson about history and people, that kindness is timeless, and love is so easy to give.


	3. Diving Into Waves Over Deeper Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things change and some things don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm sorry for the long wait, life has just been hectic and my computer just broke so I'm hand writing and typing things into my phone. BUT the rest of the story has been outlined and the next chapter is more than halfway done. I love you all, thank you for your comments and kudos, and enjoy! 
> 
> MAJOR PROPS TO FRENCHY FOR BEING THE BEST BETA EVER

Half an hour after their ‘moment’, Steve is released with a stern _“Take better care of yourself, Steve, or I’ll make you take horse pills like a real old man,”_ from Bruce.

They eat lunch quietly in their kitchen; leftover lasagna that Steve eats all of, probably only because Bucky is watching him like a hawk. Afterwards, Steve cleans up their dishes without a word, and then ambles off to his room for a nap. So Bucky decides to do research.

And by research, he means asking JARVIS to pull up a log of Steve’s favorite foods and a log of his sleeping habits. He also asks JARVIS to compile a spreadsheet of Steve’s panic attacks, emphasizing the frequency and triggers because he doesn’t want to miss anything anymore. Bucky also asks JARVIS to purchase lifetime memberships to several art museums around the world because hey, he’s got enough money to live three full lifetimes and still have some leftover, and this is beyond worth it. Because Steve doesn’t draw anymore, not that anyone knows of, and that needs to be rectified.

He’s deeply invested in a recipe for chocolate peanut butter cheesecake a few hours later when he hears the scream.

“JARVIS?”

_“Captain Rogers appears to be having a nightmare, Sir.”_

Bucky runs.

The door to Steve’s room will need two of its hinges replaced, but the blonde man curled into the small ball, shaking apart on the bed, well, he needs more. It’s all muscle memory, the way Bucky hops onto the bed and pulls Steve into his lap, Steve’s back to Bucky’s chest with his legs framing Steve’s waist. It’s easy to forget, looking at the behemoth Steve is now, that he was once upon a time a small sickly man who weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. But here, with his arms gripping Bucky’s where they rest across his chest, his face wet with tears and his super-charged lungs struggling to hold on to a decent breath, Bucky is suddenly reminded of that boy. He’s whispering nonsensical reassurances in Steve’s ear and carding his fingers through blonde hair. When Steve’s breathing seems to even out and Bucky can feel his pulse slow down, he doesn’t pull away. He just sits there and holds Steve close, letting the tears dry on their own, and breathing deep and steady to remind Steve that he can too.

_Some things change and some things don’t. Hold on to the ones that matter and let the others fall away._

“Sorry,” is the first word out of Steve’s mouth; his voice sounds rough, likely from screaming. Bucky just shakes his head in response, his cheek pressed lightly against the crown of Steve’s hair.

“This happen often?” Bucky doesn’t stop the soothing motions of his hand.

“Once a week, sometimes,” Steve pauses to draw in a deep, shaky breath and then, “sometimes more.”

Bucky can’t spend the foreseeable future feeling guilty about everything he may or may not have inadvertently put Steve through. It’s been a process, one Marissa has shown unwavering patience for, to get to this point where Bucky can acknowledge his misgivings and focus on the moving forward aspect instead of the _holyshitifuckedupsobad_ aspect. He understands, now, that some things are just out of his control and that all he can do is rebuild.

_So roll up your sleeves, take a breath, and get to work._

“How come I never heard it until now?” Steve breathes deeply for a moment, and Bucky can feel the tension slip into his best friends bones, can feel the apprehension gripping his muscles.

“I dunno, Bucky, guess the walls are just really well soundproofed. Normally, I wake myself up before it gets bad,” and then I run – is left unspoken but it’s there. Bucky doesn’t know if Steve is running away or towards something. Doesn’t know what Steve could be running from or to.

But Bucky also knows that the walls aren’t that well soundproofed, not in the rooms of each apartment, only the floors between suites, because if they were, Steve shouldn’t have been able to hear Bucky’s nightmares. But he did, Steve heard them all and talked nonsense from the hallway because he wouldn’t have JARVIS open the door, and when Bucky would emerge, Steve would be slouched against the wall, offering up (false) smiles and sparring or running or midnight breakfast at that diner down the street. Bucky chooses to ignore all of this though, in favor of cradling Steve closer. Maybe it’s because of their conversation earlier, maybe it’s because this is the first time Bucky’s walked in on Steve’s ghosts, or maybe it’s because Steve is too tired to be selfless, but regardless of the reason, Steve curls himself into Bucky and breathes deep.

Sometimes that’s all that can be done.

They sit there for a while, relearning the patterns of each others breaths, and then Bucky has an idea.

“Hey, Steve,”  Bucky nudges him gently and gets a low hum in response.

“Let’s bake,” and okay, that sounds a lot stupider out loud, but Bucky’s already invested. Full steam ahead.

“What?” Steve asks, clearly confused.

“Let’s bake something. JARVIS, any 24 hour markets nearby?” Bucky’s already getting up and pulling Steve with him. Steve, the complete dope, is wearing an Iron Man T-shirt and Hulk pajama bottoms, because of course Steve would own Avengers nightclothes. He looks adorable, blotchy face and all.

_“There is a small convenience store nearby that carries the ingredients you require, Sir,”_ JARVIS replies, because he knows what kind of desert Bucky wants to make and he’s the best.

“You’re awesome, J,” Bucky says as he tosses Steve a hoodie and a pair of sweats. It’s late afternoon, easing into evening, and no one will recognize them if they look like they just came from the gym. Steve wordlessly changes on the spot and Bucky takes a moment to appreciate Steve. Not just Erskine’s serum for giving Steve this body, but Steve, who is still written in the freckles across his now broad back; a constellation where there was once just a cluster. He’s still Steve, the same way Bucky is still Bucky; they’re both just a bit weathered, a bit weary, a bit broken. But this is ground zero, here and now, with the evening sun setting softly through the curtains, and Steve’s red-rimmed eyes telling Bucky all he needs to know.

_Some things change and some things don’t. Hold on to the ones that matter –_

_“I’ve pinpointed the market and several others on your phone, Sir. Do you require anything else?”_ JARVIS intones softly just as Bucky reaches for his wallet and keys.

“Nah, we’re good here, JARVIS. If anyone asks, you don’t know where we are.” Bucky locks the door behind them and then nods his head in the direction of the elevator. Steve gives a little shrug and they head off, JARVIS’ _‘of course, Sir’_ following them out. Bucky glimpses at the map on his phone, but decides to scrap the route and just meander with Steve until they get there.

The air is crisp, but still a little warm; autumn’s arms cling to the leaves and light jackets of New York City. They’re walking down the block, away from the market, but Steve doesn’t seem to care. Bucky bumps their shoulders gently and is rewarded for his efforts with a small smile. For the center of Midtown, there are not many people on the streets. Cabs still zip by and there are still people out, sure, but they’ve got room to meander a bit. Bucky intends to take full advantage of the fact that he has Steve to himself, even if he is in one of the most crowded places in the world because he’s missed Steve, strange as it sounds.

“You really okay, Steve?” He doesn’t have to speak much above a murmur with their heightened hearing and all, and the sound pollution is more like white noise in the background, so they can converse just fine. Steve glances at Bucky and for just a flash, he looks desperate, but it’s gone just as quickly, and then he’s giving Bucky a convincing but fake smile and saying,

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about earlier, though, really. I didn’t want you to hear that,” and then he ducks his head, self-deprecating as always. It makes Bucky furious, but it also makes him sad, because Steve has found himself at the point where he has to lie to Bucky about his emotions.

“You don’t have to tell me everything, hell, you don’t have to tell me anything. Just don’t lie to me, Stevie,” he presses his arm into Steve’s, trying to offer some kind of reassurance that he is here, now, arms open and willing. Steve, Bucky is now realizing, has grown into the kind of man who would rather fall apart in solitude than bleed on anyone else. Or maybe he was always like that and Bucky’s just catching up.

He remembers a short conversation with Wilson a few months back when Bucky had decided to drop in to the local VA with homemade cookies and a weary smile. It had been a not-so-good day and he had left while Steve was in the gym, a pile of burst punching bags lying at his feet like broken dolls. And wow, that should’ve been a clue. But Bucky left for the VA, treats in hand, and walked in at the tail end of Sam’s meeting. There was an older veteran who had given Bucky a dazzling smile when handed a plate of cookies, and Bucky had tried his best to return it. Later, when Wilson had finished making his rounds and saying goodbye, Bucky asked after the older man.

_“Yeah that’s Jacob,” Wilson started with a smile, “he didn’t talk much at first, but he’s settled into civilian life now.”_

_“What made him start talking?” Bucky asked._

_“I cared.” Wilson shrugged a little and waved to the last vet as they left. When Bucky gave him a questioning look, Wilson sighed and leaned against the wall._

_“Sometimes the saddest people are just waiting for someone to notice and listen. Just hoping that maybe someone will care enough about whether they’re okay or not. Jacob’s family didn’t really believe in mental illnesses, so he kept a lot of things to himself growing up, and his dad was hard on him about toughening up and never showing his weaknesses. He kept everything in, for decades, and all it took was me looking him in the eye and saying, ‘hey, friend, you don’t have to pretend with me,’ and now here we are, years later, and Jacob is attending therapy and just moved in with his partner of one year.” Wilson smiled at that and Bucky couldn’t help but to return it._

_The rest of that day wasn’t so bad._

Steve isn’t Jacob, not by a long shot, but maybe this is something Steve needs to hear just as badly.

“Whatever it is that’s eating you, you know you can come to me for anything, right? Big or small, it doesn’t matter,” they’re nearing the little market at this point and Bucky keeps their arms pressed lightly together; a quiet reassurance in a loud place.

“It’s stupid, Buck,” Steve’s cheeks have the slightest hint of red coloring in them now, his head is ducked, and his shoulders are hunched in.

“Nothing that concerns you is ‘stupid’, Steven, don’t be an idiot,” Bucky grins at the mock-insulted looks Steve shoots him.

“Stevie…” Bucky stops them outside the market and pulls Steve so they’re leaning against the wall near the doors; the fluorescent lights from inside barely touching them. Steve takes a breath and looks at Bucky for a moment before completely deflating and sagging against the wall, leaning in a bit closer to Bucky like he’s trying to find something there. He might.

“It’s not a big deal, I was…just surprised, I guess. After the serum I mean, but after I woke up too,” he takes a deep breath and holds it for a bit before letting it out.

“I thought that…if I had purpose, if I had a mission or a goal to accomplish, I’d be okay, you know? ‘Cause when I was that little guy, I had _no fuckin’ clue_ who I was or what I was doing, Buck. I was lost and terrified and angry and it felt like I was just too small for all the hurt I was carryin’ around,” Steve pauses to breathe deeply through his nose; it’s a harsh, wet-sounding breath and it twists Bucky’s insides around unpleasantly.

“After, I guess I just thought it would all go away now that I had a mission. But now…I _still_ feel too small, and I don’t even know why.” And Steve looks so anguished and apologetic.

_Some things change and some things don’t. Hold on –_

He pulls Steve in and hugs him, probably too tight, but Steve’s hugging back just as hard, so he figures they’ll be okay. After a few minutes, he pulls back a little and says,

“C’mon, we have a desert to make,” because Bucky has yet to find a problem that can’t be solved by baking.

An hour, a disagreement over whole wheat versus regular flour, and a raised eyebrow at the several jars of peanut butter and Nutella later, Bucky and Steve are walking back to the Tower with grocery bags in their arms and a distinctly more relaxed air between them. Bucky is also searching through his memories for signs he missed way back when, but he can’t, because they grew up on the tail end of one war and no one was smiling much when they were struggling to put food on the table. If Steve was more or less depressed (Wilson gave him a delightful crash-course on modern psychology; there were charts and hand puppets), then no one had reason to notice, because it was the _Great Depression_. Hell, Steve might not even know that there is a name for what he feels, probably never stopped to ask or anything since the army of aliens and everything else. Even if he does, Steve is the kind of person who puts everyone before himself. But Bucky isn’t a psychologist and maybe Steve just needs a friend. He can do that.

“What’re we making, anyway?” Steve asks as they start unloading their bags on their countertop.

“Cake.” Bucky sets the necessary ingredients aside while Steve unpacks some of the other things they bought just because. Like the bags of candy. And the two magnetic poetry sets that were sitting near the register. And the colorful pack of plastic containers that they can use for…something.

“Oh. Hey, sort out the candy into those, actually,” Bucky says, pointing to the containers and the candy respectively.

“How do you want them sorted? You bought five bags of various candy, Buck,” Steve gives him a slightly exasperated look. Even in his youth, Bucky had a bit of a sweet tooth.

“Hm, how about chocolates in one, pure sugar in another? Anything else, sort at your discretion,” Bucky grabs the containers (they came in various sizes, shapes, and colors and were only $8; God bless the twenty-first century) and shoves Steve towards the barstool on the opposite side of the counter. While Steve grumbles about ‘this isn’t even in English, do you even know what this is?’, Bucky starts pulling out glass bowls and measuring utensils.

“Steve gimme a Milky Way,” Bucky doesn’t even look up from measuring the flour, but lets the smirk tug at his lips.

“Here,” Steve holds out a single mini Milky Way. Bucky glances at his flour and egg covered hands (being able to cook is not exclusive to being able to stay clean while cooking) and then back up at Steve. Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Stevieee,” Bucky croons with his most winning smile. Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly and then unwraps the chocolate. He leans a bit over the counter and Bucky obligingly opens his mouth; grin still plastered across his face. If he looks a bit crazy with his mouth wide open and a smile stretching his lips, well, neither of them comments on it. The moment the chocolate is touching his lips, Bucky lunges forward and takes the whole thing in one bite. He overshoots just the littlest bit and nips the tips of Steve’s fingers. Steve jerks back a little, a small hiss escaping his throat.

“Aw, Steve, did I give you a boo-boo?” Bucky asks in his baby voice, a smirk on his lips.

“Screw you, Barnes,” Steve tosses back with a smirk of his own and a roll of his eyes.

“At least buy me dinner first, Rogers,” Bucky winks and laughs at the blush that spreads across Steve’s cheekbones. He looks beautiful. Here, now, in their kitchen, baking, sorting, and bantering between them, Bucky feels better. Like he never realized the world was off-kilter until it slotted into place.

“If you’re finished sorting our bounty, then do me a favor and melt the chocolate.” Bucky keeps a faint smile on his face as he gestures with his chin to the bags of semi-sweet chocolate chips on the counter.

“How do I do that?” Steve hip bumps Bucky on his way to the sink to wash his hands, a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’ll go easy on you and let you use the microwave this time – ”

“How generous of you.” Steve deadpans.

“Just pour the chips into a glass bowl and stick it in the microwave for thirty seconds,” Bucky continues without acknowledging Steve’s, frankly rude, interruption.

“Stir it and then stick it back in for ten seconds. Repeat until it’s nice and smooth,” Bucky turns back to his batter. His initial plan was to make a cheesecake, that is until he remembered a recipe Wilson had given him for a _‘soul melting bite of Heaven, man, just trust me’_ and he figured they could always make a cheesecake some other time. So, he’s arm-deep in a big-ass bowl of cake batter trying to work out all of the flour lumps because he knows the rest of the team will want some. They work in silence for the next minute or so, only interrupted by the ding! of the microwave.

Twenty minutes later finds them on the couch, Bucky’s legs in Steve’s lap, a timer for the cake on the wall above the TV, and an animated show about a boy who can wield the elements as weapons playing quietly.

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve turns his head to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky turns his head away from the blind ‘earthbending’ badass on the screen to meet Steve’s eyes with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t have to. Bucky can read the expression there, he’s always been able to, and so he lets his smile broaden. Bucky pulls Steve so he’s half sprawled on top of him; their legs all tangled up like the roots of a tree and Steve’s ear pressed against Bucky’s heart. Steve’s heartbeat is steady and his breaths are easy. His spine is straight and his weight is a welcome reassurance. He doesn’t respond to Steve’s gratitude, because he doesn’t have to. They’ve existed together long enough that some things don’t need to be said.

Later, they’ll eat cake for a late dessert; never mind that they skipped dinner. After, one of them will deliver the cake to the fridge in the common room to be devoured by the supervultures and then, if neither of them is particularly sleepy, they’ll bring the candy and other snacks into their living room, they’ll toss the cushions on the floor just like when they were kids, and they’ll watch TV, tangled together in whatever new configuration they find themselves in.

_Some things change and some things –_

Some things are better left unsaid. So leave the words unspoken and let your heartbeats start a new conversation. There is room for _‘thank you’_ and _‘you’re welcome’_ and _‘I’m sorry’_ later. For now, let yourself tangle into his roots.


	4. I Was Never What I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being human means taking the scenic route. So breathe deeply and speak softly; unfurl your fist and touch tenderly, because all the world is beauty and all rivers run to the sea. You'll get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: I'm so so so so so sorry it has taken me forever to upload my computer got extreme water damage because I fell off a bridge so I had to get a new one and I just moved back to the states and I'm making excuses but I'm sorry and here's the next chapter.  
> Second: Frenchy is the best ever because she beta's my fluff and enables my angst and encourages my smut and lets me cuddle her and nap when I don't feel like being at home so yay for Frenchy.  
> Third: Okay so in comic books when someone is speaking another language the text is italisized and put in bracket things and then the language spoken is annotated by an * so that the reader doesn't have to look anything up and they can continue reading unhindered. I like that so I'm using it in this story to indicate another language is being spoken, most often Russian.  
> Fourth: I'm Raptor_Squad now because I just binge-watched all of the Jurassic movies and I am in love and dinosaurs are awesome okay. Also, Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan are ruining my life because they're so cute and I just want to shower them in puppies and flowers. 
> 
> Please enjoy this fluffy-angst explosion, I'm working on chapter 5 now. Love you!

Two weeks pass the way the night of the cake did, except now, Steve doesn’t need to have a nightmare for Bucky to come running. Most often, he walks.

Steve’s face – bright baby blues, flushed cheeks, trembling lower lip – when Bucky hands him lifetime membership cards to the MOMA and the Met is a thing of beauty. Bucky has JARVIS scan back through the security footage so he can take a screenshot. He sends it to the rest of the team, then sets it as the wallpaper on his tablet.

Tonight though, they just curl up on the couch. It takes Bucky all of five minutes to piece together another part of Steve that he had once-upon-a-time overlooked.

Steve is touch-starved.

See, Bucky knows a thing or twelve hundred about being starved for physical contact, especially physical contact that doesn't hurt. It took him weeks to break enough of his programming to let Steve just pat his shoulder without flinching and months before he felt comfortable enough to initiate contact. Being touch-starved doesn't always mean fearing touch, sometimes it means wanting touch but being afraid to ask. So at first, he’s a little confused, because he’s never associated those signs with Steve. He’s used to seeing them in himself, sure, but seeing them in Steve is like seeing a drowning fish – viscerally painful in its innate wrongness. And it’s probably a recent thing, since he remembers being a tactile person; he remembers always having his arm slung over Steve’s bony shoulders, and it makes sense, because who would approach Steve now and fling an arm over those broad shoulders, or throw their feet across his lap on the couch during a movie? Not many people - not even the team, and they’re some of the most tactile people Bucky’s ever met.

Maybe they're not so different in that regard; maybe Steve hasn't been touched tenderly in years either.

_Being human means taking the scenic route. So breathe deeply and speak softly; unfurl your fist and touch tenderly, because all the world is beauty and all rivers run to the sea. You'll get there._

When they’re on the couch, Bucky catches Steve inching a little closer, very slight movements, almost imperceptible, but Bucky is a sniper and he is used to being very still for long periods of time; he notices. He doesn’t want to embarrass Steve or bring up the issue, so instead of commenting on it, he opens his body language up, and over the course of an hour, Steve ends up with his head cushioned on Bucky’s right thigh.

It’s comfortable.

Without thought, Bucky cards his metal fingers through Steve’s hair; the various shades of gold catching and reflecting the light off the vibranium digits. His right hand ends up on Steve’s abdomen, sometimes tapping absent rhythms into the hardened flesh, sometimes simply tracing abstract lines. Before long, Steve is dozing on Bucky’s lap, looking for all the world like a sleepy puppy, and it hits Bucky straight in the chest.

_This is it._

Bucky doesn’t need sleepless nights spent baking or long awkward talks about feelings or a group of superheroes gifting him with their weird versions of affection. Just this. A lazy evening curled up on the couch with his best friend in the entire world, twined together because why should they spend any more time apart?

 _But_ Bucky’s gone through the long talks and the baking and the affections; he’s been on the receiving end of so much care that he almost doesn’t know what to do with it. Almost.

What did Wilson call it? _Paying it forward._

So Bucky continues rubbing Steve’s scalp and tapping odd patterns into his abdomen, and eventually they both fall into a semi-sleeping daze. When Bucky comes to, Steve is fully conked out against his numb right thigh. He doesn’t want to move him, because to wake Steve when he’s so relaxed is a crime against humanity, so he sits and pulls his tablet close, content to wait for Steve to rejoin him in the land of the conscious.

He’s just clicked on another video game play-through (this one is part of a series about goats and it's hilarious) when Steve starts to fidget. It takes a few minutes, and Bucky enjoys the video-game goat falling as much as he enjoys Steve’s snuffles and twitches.

“Wha time ‘sit?” Steve asks through the hand scrubbing over his face. He’s still sprawled in Bucky’s lap.

“Dunno,” Bucky responds even though the clock in the corner of his tablet says 9:26pm accusingly.

“Liar,” Steve grumbles and then vaults up off the couch, sleepily making his way towards the fridge.

“Whatever you’re making, I want four!” Bucky calls and he knows Steve can hear his smirk from across the room. He’s proved right when he hears Steve curse and mumble while he bustles around in the kitchen.

“Get off your ass and come get your food, Barnes,” Steve grouches.

“Don’t be like that, doll,” Bucky smirks as he sidles up right next to Steve at the counter, taking his stack of peanut butter and jelly gratefully.

“Not a dame, Buck,” Steve mumbles around his mouthful of sandwich.

“But you blush like one,” Bucky sings just as he plants an over dramatic kiss on Steve’s cheek. Lo and behold, Steve’s cheeks get all pretty and pink. It’s nice, not only living in a world where he can tease his best friend like that, but also living in a world where there is room for such frivolities. More sunny days for life to bloom in full.

"Asshole," Steve gives Bucky a dirty look but the effect is sufficiently undermined by the smile tugging at his lips.

“Ah! You wound me,” Bucky grasps at his heart with his right hand while his left stuffs more sandwich into his mouth.

“You’re a menace,” Steve mutters over his shoulder as he sleepily wanders into his bedroom. The door is left open, a clear invitation or a lack of caring maybe, and Bucky happily follows.

“And you’re a stubborn punk,” he shoots back while he plops himself on one of the lounge chairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Steve lets out a huff of laughter before turning back to his computer, clicking through a few things Bucky can’t see.

It’s an easy moment between them, hardly worth mentioning, which is why Bucky enjoys it so much. A few weeks ago, this kind of existence between the two of them was more of a fleeting half-idea. Bucky relaxes into his chair and polishes off his sandwiches while surveying Steve’s room. It’s bare except for a few touches that are purely Steve. There are Polaroid’s matted to a board on the wall right behind Steve’s right shoulder, a gift from Natalia, all candid photos of the team in various states of undress and laughter.Her neat handwriting captioning every instance with point-blank sarcasm makes every captured moment an individual treasure. There are a few pictures of the Commandos on Steve’s left, all matted into one medium sized frame, and Steve’s loopy handwriting detailing whom everyone is, along with the dates of their deaths.

Bucky’s photo isn’t on the wall at all.

“Hey, Steve,” he stays relaxed in his chair, legs thrown over one arm, head resting on the other so he can make eye contact.

“Hmmm?” Steve hums, slightly distracted by whatever he’s typing.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?” He still hasn’t looked up.

“Steeeeevvvvveeeeee.” Bucky has a small smirk on his face now.

“What?” Steve presses a final button before lifting his head to throw Bucky an amused look.

“How come my picture isn’t on your wall of fame?” He doesn’t actually mean for it to come out like that, he’s just curious. But also, he’s maybe a little hurt, because he thought that best friends got their photographs on each other’s walls - never mind that there are no photos on Bucky's walls at all.

“What’re you – oh,” Steve’s eyes get really wide and immeasurably sad at the same time.

“I’m not mad or nothin’; I was just curious cause you’ve got the Howlies and the team up there watchin’ you yell at politicians over your shoulder. Kinda glad you’re not subjectin’ my likeness to such boredom, actually,” Bucky offers up a smirk in an effort to salvage their easygoing mood from earlier, but Steve’s lip actually starts to honest-to-God _tremble_ and Bucky feels a bit like a jerk.

“C’mere,” Steve scoots his chair back and over so Bucky can stand behind the desk. With slight caution, he gets up and moves to stand by Steve and finally sees what’s on his computer screen. Emails. Team calendar. The MOMA website.

“Uh…?” Bucky feels his brow furrow in confusion. He starts to turn his head to look at Steve, but then Steve makes a gesture with his hand, minimizing every window and exposing his desktop.

His computer consists of three monitors: a central monitor and two monitors that can be angled inward for a theater effect. Each of the monitors can work independently of each other or they can work as a single glass unit, courtesy of the twenty-first century. They all share a desktop picture. Or rather, they share a collage of pictures.

All three monitors are covered in photos of Bucky. Some of them are candid, clearly security feed shots, of him lounging around the Tower or hanging out with one of the other Avengers. The central monitor is filled mostly with selfies he was coerced into taking with Darcy or Natalia or Stark. In every picture, he looks happy or relaxed.

_Being human means taking the scenic route. So breathe deeply and speak softly; unfurl your fist and touch tenderly, because all the world is beauty-_

“What?” is the only semi-coherent thing he can think at the moment because what?

“Natasha sent me all of these - she has a habit of taking pictures of people when they’re not looking. Instead of printing them all out and covering the walls, I did this,” Steve gets up just then and moves towards his bedside table. Bucky takes the opportunity to steal Steve’s chair.

“But…I printed this one out,” Steve returns with a small leather book clasped between his hands. It looks old-fashioned and actually old with Steve’s initials embossed in gold on the front cover. It looks like a sketchbook. Steve opens to the back of the book and pulls out a small picture. He takes a breath, and hands it to Bucky facedown. Bucky takes it with his flesh hand and flips it over immediately, a small smile curling at his lips in response to what he sees. It answers the question he had a moment ago, which was _why isn’t Steve in any of these_ , because here Steve is, doubled over in laughter with Bucky clutching his shoulder and laughing with him. Bucky remembers this moment from a couple months ago; an anomaly in their interactions with each other.

Steve was trading barbs with Natalia after a training session and Bucky was making himself a fruit bowl. Out of nowhere, he had spoken over Steve and hit Natalia with a dirty joke so god-awful that there was a second of stunned silence before Steve’s face had turned red and he was near crying with laughter. Of course Steve would keep a memento of something like that. And…this is a thing Steve does, Bucky realizes. He used to keep a picture of his Ma in a sketchbook lost to time, he kept Peggy’s photo in his compass during the war, and now, now he keeps a photo of them together in –

“Steven, is that your diary?” Bucky teases and smiles wide up at Steve’s flushed face.

“No," and Steve's voice is suddenly so gentle, "it was a gift from Tony,” he gently takes the photo and places it back into its place before closing the book and setting it down on his bedside table. Bucky shuts up, too filled with a strange sort of warmth to sass Steve right now. Instead he gets up, his training keeping him silent, and hugs Steve's back, both arms resting over his sternum. Bucky thinks of all the quiet ways Steve shows his love, thinks of hard sparring sessions and carefully placed books, of archery lessons and always helping hands.

"You're my favorite person, you know?" Bucky whispers into the base of Steve's neck because he can.

"No, I didn't, but you're my favorite person too, Buck," Steve whispers back and the room is filled with sudden silence. It falls somewhere between the easy quiet they move through like molasses and the tense quiet that pricks like claws against Bucky's skin.

How is it, Bucky wonders, that Steve can jump from jets and die for a country that has turned him into little more than an idea, but he can't see his own worth?

_Being human means taking the scenic route. So breathe deeply and speak softly; unfurl your fist and touch tenderly-_

_"Sirs, pardon me for the interruption, but Captain Rogers is needed in the meeting room immediately,"_ JARVIS' voice breaks through Bucky's thoughts. It's probably for the best, because he feels like he's about to choke on his own emotions.

"Situation?" And gone is the sleepy soft Steve that Bucky has gotten used to; gone is the soft spoken man who keeps a photo of his best friend in his sketchbook. A part of Bucky hates it, hates that Steve has to wear a full body suit of armor and throw a shield like a Grecian angel of vengeance, because he wants Steve soft and happy and making bad jokes when they make dinner together. It doesn't matter how well Steve wears it, it doesn't matter that he said yes to Erskine, because Steve didn't ask for this: this convoluted existence where the war never ends and he never gets to go home.

Or maybe Bucky's projecting.

 _"Agent Barton and Sir are waiting with the briefing, Captain,"_ JARVIS intones solemnly, which is Bucky's first clue about how bad it might be. But if it was really bad, the whole team would go, right? Right.

Steve is all hard lines as he grabs his always-packed duffle and shield, but he pauses and throws Bucky a small smile on his way out the door. Bucky leaves Steve's room, sketchbook on the table, computer still on, the spot where they stood and hugged still warm. He doesn't do well with being idle anymore, so he cleans the kitchen and the living room, and then he changes into sweats and heads down to the simulation room. He's putting on the reaction gloves when there's a chime and then Steve's voice, "Bucky? Where are you?" He doesn't sound frantic or overly concerned, so Bucky forces his muscles to relax.

"Simulation room."

"We're leaving now. Should be back in a week or two," someone mumbles something near or behind Steve, but Bucky doesn't catch it.

"Whole team?" "No, just me and Clint. Milk run," and here is where Steve's voice gets a little pinched and if Bucky were anyone else, he wouldn't catch it.

Steve is lying.

Bucky doesn't respond.

"Hey, when I come back let's finish out The Last Airbender and then do Legend of Korra," and Bucky knows it's as much an empty promise as it is a full one. A ball of dread settles low in Bucky's stomach.

"Sure thing, Stevie," And Bucky focuses really hard on lacing up the impact boots.

"Gotta go. See you soon, Buck," and then, Steve's gone off to who-knows-where. Bucky selects hand-to-hand in close quarters and then amps up the assailants to nearly triple digits. He sets the difficulty to 'swarm' and then begins his workout.

He is not surprised, when he emerges from the showers a few hours later, to find Natalia leaning casually against the wall, clearly waiting for him despite the late hour. He follows her silently to the common room where Wilson waits on the couch, scrolling through Netflix. It's been awhile since the three of them had a night in together: Natalia was often training and Wilson was often at the VA phasing himself out of the rotation slowly so he could Avenge full-time. And Bucky's been with Steve, enjoying quiet nights filled with laughter and bad reality TV shows, going for walks through parks and browsing rooftops for the best view of sunrise. But maybe this night in is a blessing in disguise; an easy distraction from worrying. It occurs to Bucky that perhaps that's what Wilson and Natalia are doing too.

_Being human means taking the scenic route. So breathe deeply-_

* * *

 The first week passes as well as it can.

Everyone is on edge because no one knows where Steve and Barton actually are, except maybe Tony, but he's locked himself into his workshop and every time Bucky sees him, the ghosts under his eyes look more and more haunted, so he doesn't pry. Bruce keeps to himself in his own lab, but will occasionally check on Tony to make sure his sleeplessness isn't accompanied by malnutrition. Natalia moves about normally, but Bucky can see the fine lines of worry creasing her brow and tightening her lips whenever they cross paths. Wilson comes and goes, as does Miss Potts, but Bucky doesn't interact with them much, because he's in his own isolation. He rarely leaves the apartment, except for training and to occasionally pester Darcy for something to do so he doesn't go out of his mind and demolish something in his worry.

For the most part though, he keeps himself busy. Bucky understands how close he is to cracking under the strain, how close he is to just blanking out and dissociating from the worrisome situation because how do people do this? How do they sit around and wait for their loved ones to come back? How do they do it?

The answer, Bucky learns, is that they don't.

So he knits, but instead of petite things of various colors and patterns for Natalia, he knits a huge sweater, with rainbow yarn because Steve loves that he can see all of the colors now and he would wear it with pride, and then he knits a slouchy beanie in red white and blue, because he's a jerk and Steve loves that too. And he bakes: cookies, cakes, something Swedish, a few things Russian, a lot of things South American, and even more things Asian. By the time the second week has rolled around, the people at the VA are smilingly threatening to get a restraining order because "C'mon James, we're not as young as we used to be; all these sweets are going to our thighs!" He makes them three batches of low-fat muffins in response and pretends to ignore the scowls thrown his way.

By this point, he is anxious to see Steve again, but he has another day to wait. They've been on radio silence the whole time; the only communication a simple 'okay' after the first week that went through several layers of encryption and a bunch of different satellites before it even reached the tower. Tony is in the lab below the common room waiting for the signal for extraction; a Quinjet with a vetted pilot and doctor on standby. Natalia is lounging deceptively calm in one of the armchairs near the windows and Bruce is puttering about in the kitchen. Bucky, meanwhile, stands at the windows, hoping he'll see the Quinjet takeoff and then return with his precious cargo. No one comments on the poorly hidden restlessness.

"Guys get down here. Like now," comes Tony's frantic voice through the speakers.

They all run.

The elevator is ignored while they all opt for the stairs: faster route, more impact on their feet to appease their pounding hearts and frozen lungs. When they reach Tony's lab, there are of course circuit boards and holograms and schematics everywhere, but the space around Tony's central workbench is as clean as it ever gets.

"I got a transmission a few seconds ago from Clint. I'm trying to get a clearer satellite read now," Tony says by way of greetings, fingers flying across the screen, shoulders and back tense.

"-ark? -asha? Hello? -od please answer. Hello?" Barton's voice comes in over the speakers in the lab. Somehow, it makes the whole situation seem surreal, like this is all just some scene from one of the B-rate horror films Natalia likes to watch, but the grim expressions on everyone's face and the cold stone of dread Bucky can feel forming in his gut dispute that notion.

"Katniss?" Tony tries to ask lightly, but his fingers are moving too fast and his entire body is tense.

"Ugh, fuck, _fuck_ , sonofabitch- ambush. They knew we were - ugh, motherfucker! They knew we were coming," there's some scratching and groaning and a loud thunk, "I tried- I tried to cover him but they broke my leg and dislocated my shoulder, and then blew me up, amongst other things. Barnes- _Bucky, I'm sorry_ ," Barton wheezes out through what is probably a punctured lung and multiple rib fractures, if not breaks. Bucky has to internally shake himself back into the now before he slips into old habits and blanks out on everyone. Because _Steve._

"Steve." And his voice isn't flat and that's a win, but it is hollow and that's- that's painful, because he is dreading the next words out of Barton's mouth.

"They got him. Blacked out after the explosion and when I came to, he was gone. Shield and everything. It's been maybe 7 hours since then? I got knocked out late last night and the sun is coming up." Barton's voice is crystal clear, but clearly bone tired and Bucky thinks of youth sacrificed to war, of empty graves standing straight and tall while nameless children are reduced to little more than cannon fodder and stardust.

_Being human means taking the scenic-_

Bucky recognizes that if Steve were dead, they would've left the body, or made some arrogant announcement within ranks to celebrate the death of Captain America and Tony has been secretly monitoring HYDRA feeds. Conclusion: Steve is more than likely still alive.

Bucky also recognizes that this means Steve is a hostage, and that they haven't heard anything about ransom, so it's likely that there will be no negotiations. It is even more likely that they will torture Steve, perhaps for information, but probably because they'll find it fun. When they have had their laughs and giggles, they will probably kill him and dump his body on Stark's doorstep. Or maybe the President's.

Bucky knows these things because he knows HYDRA, because he understands the inner workings of a monster's mind. He doesn't even have to look at Natalia to know that she has reached the same conclusion, which is probably for the best, because if he looks at her, he'll think of the protective way she watches Steve, he'll think of the friendship they forged when they were working for SHIELD, he'll think of the photos she took for him, and if he thinks of those things, he'll think of all of the ways he's failed Steve recently and then he'll break something. Or someone.

So it's best if he doesn't actually look at anyone right now, given the quickly fraying seams of his control.

"I'm sending the jet to you; don't move. If the trackers in Steve's suit are still working..." Tony trails off and Bruce steps up to help him start the search, because _of course_ they're going to look for Steve. From his peripherals, Bucky sees Natalia leave the room, probably to board the Quinjet. If only Bucky could catch a quick flight and pick up Steve, battered and bruised but there. But he can't; he can't because Steve is gone and they have no idea where he is and he's been in HYDRA's grasp for several hours and _so much_ can happen in that time.

Bucky doesn't believe in God, not anymore, because if God is the kind of being that would sit by and watch horrible things happen to Steven Rogers, then he's clearly not worth Bucky's time. But still, he finds himself sending a small prayer into the ethers for Steve to be alive.

"...yeah, get Foster to summon Thor or whatever she does..."

"...if they're moving by plane, then they'd have to be within this radius, right..."

"...should we contact Coulson..."

"...he'd do the same for any of us, and then some..." Bruce and Tony chatter endlessly in front of him, but Bucky can't really see or hear a thing. He's slipping and a part of him is so desperate to just _hang on_ , because he's worked too fucking hard to get to where he is. But. But this is _Steve_ goddammit. Bucky understands that the best way to handle this situation is as calmly as he can and as efficiently as possible, he gets that, he does.

_But fuck that noise._

His metal arm can withstand up to 200lbs by itself. He uses it to pick Stark up by his collar and slam him into the nearest wall so hard that something _cracks_. His right hand, meanwhile, pulls the knife he always carries from his back holster and presses the sharp edge to the delicate skin of Stark's throat. There is someone making noises behind him, but he pays them no mind. If they want to take him down, fine. Who gives a shit? Steve is in HYDRA's greedy claws and Bucky has run out of fucks to give.

"Where did you send him?" He growls out between clenched teeth. Stark has not moved, which is smart, because a twitch will slice his carotid artery and that will be very messy.

"Barnes, c’mon, I'm your friend. I made you that shiny arm you're using to threaten my life with," Stark glances behind Bucky. Sees something he doesn't like. Goes back to looking at Bucky.

"Where _t_ _he fuck_. Did. You. Send. Him?” Bucky presses down on Stark's sternum and digs his fingers into the thin skin around his collar bones. It will bruise. Good.

"Just outside the North Korean border. Russian side," Stark squeaks out and Bucky drops him onto the floor. Nods once. Turns about-face. Smashes the console closest to him with his flesh hand. The sharp flare of pain and the warm blood oozing out around the glass is almost comforting; it's _almost_ enough of a reassurance that his heart didn't just fall out of his chest.

"Milk run, huh?" He says quietly to the tense room. When he glances up, the Iron Man suit is pointing a repulsor at his face. His responding smile is all teeth and he only just barely hears the "Bruce, leave," before he's smashing through the breastplate and dismembering the suit. He doesn't stop there. The consoles are reduced to shards of glass sprinkled like dust on the floor. Everything that isn't bolted down gets torn apart. The things that are bolted down get eviscerated. A small voice in the back of his mind points out that he's breaking equipment that would be used to find Steve, but that voice is drowned out by the anguished howl that rips from his lungs as several of Stark's robots overpower him and attach magnetic cuffs to his arms and legs. He needs to break something, he needs to keep moving, keep fighting, he _needs_ to do  _something_ so that he doesn't think about how much his chest hurts right now or the broken tears waiting behind burning eyes. Bruce is standing by the door with a pinched look on his face and Stark is standing over him with a look of half-anger and half-sympathy, and he _hates_ it. Hates it so fucking much that he bares his teeth and growls and snarls and curses Stark and his stupid God-complex in Russian, because this is all his fault.

_< <You sent him there! You knew and you sent him anyway without backup!>>_

 "Fuck off, Barnes. This was his choice," Stark snarls back. He's bleeding a little, probably from a flyaway piece of equipment.

<< _Suicide is always his choice! >_> Bucky screams back and the whole room goes still save for the rapid up-and-down of Bucky's chest.

Stark's face goes blank; Bruce's face goes pale. Bucky is so tired.

"Do it," Stark says to Bruce through clenched teeth; hands fisted so tightly the knuckles are white as snow. Bruce comes towards him slowly, cautiously, teeth gritted in a grimace, with a needle filled with a clear liquid.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Bruce says quietly as he presses the tip into the crease of Bucky's arm. All the fight has been drained out of him, exhaustion weighs him down.

 _< <I don't want your sorry Doctor. I want Steve,>> _Bucky murmurs back as his limbs fall limp and the world closes in around him. Normally he would panic at being put down like a fucking dog, but the darkness is warm, and Bucky thinks of bird-like bones and charcoal smeared fingertips; of hands that haven't changed and pictures tucked between the pages of sketchbooks.

_Being human-_


	5. A Hummingbird Crashed Right In Front Of Me (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s seen James “Bucky” Barnes’ mouth stretch into more than a thousand variations of happiness. He’s felt more than heard Bucky’s heartbeat, steady and strong but sometimes skipping a beat even now; an intrinsic affront against his programming. Steve’s heard Bucky’s laughter and cries and sass and he knows what Bucky sounds like at 8am on a Saturday as opposed to 9am on a Sunday and the difference is more than beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you why I wrote this interlude: because I know what it's like to feel like Steve, hell, I'm sure a lot of us know what it's like to feel like Steve in some aspect. It's being the sounding board when your friends have breakdowns within weeks of each other and biting your tongue even though deep down you want to scream and cry and ask why they haven't noticed how not okay you are. I get it, and that's where this story comes from, and I felt like this interlude needed to be written, not just for angst points so that Bucky could have something to fix later, because it's not that kind of fix-it. I wrote it because Steve's point of view here is sad and convoluted and selfless and selfish and that's what it's like. So, this is for those friends. I promise, fairly clear skies from now on. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Frenchy for being one of the best friends and beta's I have ever known. I see you, darling, and I'm always here.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://r-aptorsquad.tumblr.com)

**Day 1**

Steve doesn't 'wake up' so much as he 'becomes aware' of the throbbing pain spread across his body. His ribs and legs burn, his hands feel raw, and the various scratches on his face itch. He's laying down, but he can't really move because there is something weighing down his arms and legs.

Right. HYDRA. Ambush. Explosion.

Clint. Fuck, Natasha is going to kill him if something happened to Clint.

Steve can't hear anything save for the faint whir of a fan, but that doesn't mean he's alone and because he's not a goddamned idiot, he keeps his breathing and heart rate steady to not alert anyone of his consciousness.

Temporary consciousness, that is, because he can feel the pinch of an IV in his left arm and he's getting drowsy again.

Steve thinks of Vita-Ray's and his fondness for witty brunettes as he falls under.

* * *

**Day 3**

The next time Steve comes to, his body hurts less, he's probably been unconscious for at least a day or two. He really, really hopes Tony is coming for him, because he's seen what HYDRA is capable of, held the broken pieces in his own hands as they cried through a horrific nightmare, and he'd really rather not experience that.

The fan is still whirring and he's still strapped down to a table. He feels weak in a way he hasn't in a long time, but it's not exactly the same tiredness that comes after a long battle or a particularly hard training session; it's different, sharper.

Steve's not wearing his suit anymore and he really does not want to think about what they did to his unconscious, naked body. He's in pants and a shirt though, so that's something. He can't hear anyone breathing in his immediate vicinity, so he dares to open his eyes, despite knowing that there are likely cameras trained on him.

Steve is clearly in a warehouse or a factory, because the ceilings are high with beams crisscrossing and there are a couple of small skylights letting in moonlight. There's a cement wall behind his head, but curtains on the other three sides. The floor is harsh concrete and yep, that's a drain in the corner with bloodstains leading into it.

Steve spares a thought about how cliché HYDRA is. He almost smiles.

He can't really tell anything beyond the curtains and he can't hear anything save for his own breathing, but he doesn't think for one second that he is alone. So, he focuses on detailing the room he is in and cataloging what he can use for weapons.

He hopes Tony is tracking him and sending someone to get him, but that doesn't mean he's going to lay around and make it easy on his captors.

There's an IV attached to his left arm with a disgusting blue-ish fluid feeding into his veins. His neck is no longer bound to the table, so he can turn his head and see that his shackles are large and heavy. He could probably break them if he were feeling stronger. There's a cabinet near the IV and an out of place lounge chair in the left-hand corner. His curtained off room is dark; as is what he can see of the warehouse/factory beyond. He can't see any stars through the skylight, so he can't pinpoint his location, but the sky is clear and the moon is big and beautiful.

Steve wonders how the world can be so beautiful and so ugly at the same time, but he supposes that the universe will always be filled with paradoxes. Bucky is beautiful even when he is made to do ugly things; an angel walking through darkness because he knows the price of light. 

Steve's solitude lasts for less than an hour before he hears footsteps approaching from his right. He doesn't move or make a sound, he just keeps breathing through his nose and waits. The footsteps (one person, more than likely a man, heavy-set, and favors his right leg) pause outside the curtain. Steve counts two full minutes before the footsteps turn about-face and retreat to a far off part of the warehouse. He hears no doors open or close, nor is there a change in the sound indicating that the person stepped onto another surface; there is just silence.

Steve waits. He waits and he thinks of Bucky and the wonderful new affection between the two of them. It's different in so many ways; the way Bucky will arrange himself around Steve now. Steve's always orbited around Bucky, because he has always been the one thing Steve could consider a constant in his life. He never knew his dad and he got so few years to truly appreciate his Ma, but he and Bucky grew up in each other's pockets, grew into young men together, and they've always kind of fed off of each other's energy, but now is different. Now Bucky will make jokes and spar with him, accompany Steve when he sits down to watch something on his list, and he'll request Steve's assistance in the kitchen even though they both know he only slows Bucky down. 

That's another constant in Steve's life: being a burden on Bucky Barnes.

And Steve, because he is a selfish son of a bitch (God rest Sarah Rogers' soul), leans on Bucky even though the man has been through literal Hell. Even when he was small and sickly and had nothing, he had Bucky, because he couldn't bear the thought of making Bucky leave or walking away. Steve's thought of a million ways to alleviate the weight of his existence from Bucky Barnes' life. Every time he got sick, every time he had to wake up and see his best friends worn face at his bedside, he cursed himself, because why couldn't he just die and stop hurting Bucky like this?

Steve knew back then that the serum had as much a chance of killing him as it did turning him into the super soldier Erskine wanted, and he was fine with that. He found comfort in the idea of not receiving a letter of condolences if Bucky died. He didn't want to grieve. It would've been so easy to die thinking that Bucky was alive and being a hero instead of being reduced to cannon fodder.  

But Steve can't think about his own selfishness right now. He needs to think of a way out. He needs to burn HYDRA to the ground. He needs to apologize to Nat and Clint. He needs to get back to Bucky and apologize a billion times over for letting Bucky bear his weight. He needs -

Maybe he needs to die. If HYDRA kills him now, well, at least he knows Bucky is safe and happy and so fucking loved. It wouldn't be a delusion while he lets a - for all intents and purposes - mad scientist strap him into a coffin. He knows where Bucky is, knows that he has a bed and food and friends that love him and all his pieces. If he died here, on HYDRA's table, Bucky would be okay, and that's all Steve ever wants.

And it would be okay, Steve thinks, in an ironic way, for Captain America to fall into enemy hands and die there. A nice, if tragic, ending to a story that stopped being his a long, long time ago.

Steve drifts in and out of sleep for a formless amount of time, weighing the pros and cons of dying here as opposed to another battle. Bruce told him that the serum will probably allow him to live a bit longer than the average human, that he'll remain physically young for a while. He's been young so long, but he feels centuries old. He wonders if this is what Thor feels like sometimes. Steve wonders even more if Bucky will have more years to be happy, and then he wonders if it could be possible to give Bucky all of his years, because he deserves them more than anyone Steve knows. He’s fine with not getting more time to explore the world; he doesn’t need to see the Sistine Chapel or the spider-web of canals in Venice, he doesn’t need to climb the narrow steps to the top of Angkor Wat or cave-dive into waters off the coast of Australia. Steve’s seen James “Bucky” Barnes’ mouth stretch into more than a thousand variations of happiness. He’s felt more than heard Bucky’s heartbeat, steady and strong but sometimes skipping a beat even now; an intrinsic affront against his programming. Steve’s heard Bucky’s laughter and cries and sass and he knows what Bucky sounds like at 8am on a Saturday as opposed to 9am on a Sunday and the difference is more than beauty. 

Steve’s seen Bucky. He doesn’t need much else.

But if Steve dies here, he’ll never get to see Bucky grow into the crow's feet that kiss the corners of his eyes, he’ll never get to count the laughter lines that will surely make room on his best friend’s face. It would be so easy to just let go; let go and die here on this dinky table in this unmarked facility with shackles binding his body to the earth.

Or Steve could hold on: hold on because this life is a battle worth fighting, is a storm worth braving, is a splendid mess worth getting tangled in; he can hold on because Sarah Rogers raised a fighter.

Steve doesn’t know if he wakes up or just blinks, but it’s dawn or dusk when he hears two sets of footsteps headed his way. He’s only a bit more clear-headed, which means his body is metabolizing the drug HYDRA is giving him, and he hopes they don’t realize it. Not a minute later, his curtain is thrown back with a flourish to reveal the most underwhelming man Steve has ever seen. Instead of the heavier set man Steve was expecting, this man is of average height for an American or European, which his skin tone and bone structure suggest. He’s brunette with a few gray hairs here and there, and his face is relatively well proportioned: his eyes aren’t too far apart or close together, his nose is so-so, and his mouth is plain. Overall, the man is as nondescript as one can get. If Steve wasn’t looking directly at him, and if he wasn’t Steve, he would forget what the man looks like entirely.

The woman beside him, however, is… well, the word Steve wants to use is constipated because she honestly looks like she just ate one of Clint’s heinous food processor experiments, but it doesn’t quite fit. She’s also fairly nondescript, save for her eyes, which are heterochromatic, but everything else about her screams ‘plain-white-female-somewhere-between-twenty-and-forty’, which is exactly zero help.

The three people stare at each other for almost two full minutes before the man strides forward to lean against the side of Steve’s table.

“Captain Rogers, nice to meet you,” he says fairly quickly with the air of someone who is either more important than they seem or would like to seem more important than they are.

“Wish I could say the same,” Steve smirks and makes a show of settling into his body. He sees the woman stiffen out of the corner of his eye, but he’s entirely focused on the man. His expression doesn’t outwardly change, but his eyes tighten and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Right, you’ll forgive the shackles, just a precaution. Anyway, down to business,” he gets up, claps his hands once, and moves towards the cabinet.

“If you feel more suicidal than your normal recklessness entitles, fret not, it’s simply the drug cocktail we’re pumping into you. We’ve found that it helps to keep supersoldiers compliant,” the man winks and Steve wants to rip his ribs out one by one. He just offers a sharklike smile and nothing else.

“I know you’re expecting torture, but HYDRA isn’t all bad. We want to bring order to a chaotic world, same as you, Captain,” the man pauses, probably testing to see if the drug is working, so Steve doesn’t move a muscle save for his mouth, which he lets stretch further into a maniacal version of a sharklike grin. Natasha taught him that. She would be proud.

“I simply want to study your blood. I’ve researched all of Dr. Erskine’s notes and I think I may be close to cracking his secret formula,” the man smiles while pulling out empty tubes. The woman doesn’t move any further into the room, but Steve sees the minute shaking of her head; though she’s clearly not disputing what the man is saying, she’s not amused by him.

Regardless, Steve doesn’t believe a word coming out of this man’s mouth.

“Now, we will not torture you, but I do want to see your physiological response to various situations and environments, and draw blood after every scenario so that I may understand better how it is you tick, Steve Rogers,” the man lays the items down next to Steve’s thigh and begins rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“See, Dr. Erskine was convinced that his serum affected the will of the person it was injected into, as if a bunch of chemicals could discern the good and the bad traits, as if those traits were discernible in DNA. Fact is, they aren’t. You could look at the blood of, say, Charles Manson, and then compare it to the blood of Mother Teresa, and the only difference would be in white blood cell count and the individual double-helix patterns of their DNA. There is no ‘evil’ allele, just like there is no ‘good’ allele,” the man continues to speak while he taps at Steve’s inner forearm and then sticks the needle into his vein.

“So what does that leave us with? Nothing, right?” Steve notices a faint southern accent from the man, though it is hidden well.

“Wrong. In fact, it leaves us with the perfect blank slate. The serum he injected you with bound itself to your DNA; it became a very literal part of you. I could bleed you dry - which I might yet, by the way - and give you a transfusion, and your body would, in theory, re-saturate your blood with the serum,” the man pulls away the first tube after it fills and quickly, efficiently, attaches a new one. There are ten tubes on the table 

“What I want to know, is A) how is your body doing that, because while the human body will always replenish itself of blood as long as it has enough to pump the heart, it won’t replenish the drugs that were in your bloodstream. B) What else will the serum do, given specific environmental factors and scenarios? Why did you turn out the way you did and not like Schmidt? Why would the serum affect personality traits? Those aren’t in your DNA; they’re a result of nature vs nurture and all of that good stuff. And C) how can I replicate it? Would it be as easy as drawing your blood and deconstructing your DNA? Or perhaps a more natural procedure: if the serum changed your DNA, it would change your children’s DNA too, would it not?” The man starts on the fourth bottle while talking aimlessly and Steve is feeling a little lightheaded and very murderous. Both can be pushed aside for the moment.

“Thor calls it magic,” Steve pulls out his ‘sweet-as-apple-pie’ look and grins wider when the man’s grip on his arm tightens. The man - either Steve needs to learn his name or he’s just going to be referenced to as Doc - doesn’t open his mouth again in the time it takes to fill the rest of the tubes. He and the woman leave and Steve is alone again in a darkening pseudo-room. (Turns out, it was dusk).

It doesn’t last long. Out of nowhere, brain-splitting screams of agony fill the room at a deafening volume. Steve initially cringes, but tries to adjust to it as best he can. Then the volume is raised. The pattern continues until Steve is pretty sure he’s gone deaf; volume increase, a minute or two for Steve to adjust, volume increase. At one point Steve is straining so hard against his shackles that he’s fairly certain that his bones are going to break from the pressure being exerted but then -

Then everything goes blank for a minute. Steve’s eyes are shut and he’s grimacing and this hurts; it hurts so bad, it’s like old knives scraping along every nerve ending in his body and then being lit on fire. Steve feels like he’s going to throw up or pass out and what’s horrible is that even if he screamed for it to stop, his voice would just be lost amongst the tortured others. There might be sweat running down his temples onto the neck of his shirt, but it might also be blood and there’s definitely blood in his mouth from biting his lips and cheeks, and blood on his hands from digging his nails into his palms.

And then - finito. It ends, just like that. No gradual decrease of volume, no outward sign of a finale, the sound just cuts off in the middle of a woman screaming like a trapped animal. It’s really only then that Steve feels his heart hammering in his chest and his lungs working overtime, but when he opens his eyes, there are either black spots in his vision or the curtain has suddenly developed an amorphous blob pattern. Not even two minutes later, Doc returns with the same woman from before and draws more blood. Steve can faintly see both of their mouths moving, but he can’t hear them over the loud ringing in his ears. Right before the two depart, the woman turns 45 degrees and throws Steve a small smirk.

He blacks out shortly afterwards. 

* * *

**Day 6**

They moved him while he was unconscious; he’s in a cell now, unshackled. There is a mattress on the floor with a wool blanket. No windows. No bars. No discernible door. The walls are concrete. They don’t tell him anything all day. The light goes out and Steve is plunged into endless darkness. He finds the mattress by touch and then curls into a ball to sleep.

Steve thinks of eyes that are as mercurial as the sky between storms and a smile that could cure the world. He hopes that when he wakes up, the facility will be burned to the ground and someone, anyone, will be there to take him home.

* * *

**Day 7**

There isn’t. Instead, Doc and the woman leave him alone in darkness for days. There are no shadows to play tricks on his mind, but there are definitely demons sharing his space.

* * *

**Day 10**

Doc is getting frustrated with Steve’s blood. He can tell because whenever Doc comes to draw more, his mouth is set into a permanent frown, his hair is unruly, his pants are often rumpled, and his eyes are wild. Steve makes the wise decision to not poke at him with any sharp barbs or wit. He feels weak all of the time now; he hasn’t eaten in days but they’ve kept him on an IV drip. Whenever he is unconscious - which he often is, especially during or after ‘experiments’ - they change his clothes, mostly because the ones he was wearing end up covered in blood. Sometimes vomit. They never let him stay out long.

He knows they’re trying to drive him towards some sort of brink; an unforeseen edge to suspend him and then push him from, but Steve won’t play into their mind games; he’s a patient guy and he will get through this.

He thinks of his team to wile away the conscious hours or resist the urge to scream. He won’t give these sick fucks the satisfaction of hearing him express pain, and man oh man is he in pain. He thinks of a man with a smile like sunshine, who is older than some stars; of arrogance reduced to fear turned to righteous purpose turned to innovation and philanthropy; of accidents and apologies and sacrifice, all bundled up and hidden by uncontrollable anger. Steve thinks of mastery and lethal beauty; of a flame refusing to flicker in the wind, but laughing as it dances across the earth; of simple pleasures and dog hair and greasy food and lethal power fueled by caffeine.

Steve thinks of a metal arm and a human heart and counts his blessings and makes promises only shadows hear.

* * *

**Day 11? 12.**

Steve hasn’t spoken since the first time the Doctor approached him, so he is beyond surprised when instead of waking up on the table, he wakes up entirely on his own, in his cell. The light is on, and there is a bottle of water against the wall. He won’t drink it. Steve sits cross-legged on his too-small bed in his too-big clothes and waits.

He thinks of gunpowder and ash settling like snow in a factory; thinks of people screaming in ovens and families torn apart by human cruelty. Steve doesn’t want to think anymore; his mind goes to dark places. His life is not his life, hasn’t been for a long time. He threw away his life the moment he determined himself to lead a bunch of POW’s around Europe on a rampage of revenge. Truth was, Steve had no idea what he wanted to be, no idea where he wanted to go or what kind of legacy he wanted to leave behind, he just knew he wanted Bucky to be there.

Be careful what you wish for indeed.

Steve doesn’t want to think anymore; his mind is filled with dark places, so he stares at the bottle of water and waits 

Minutes later the room is filled with more screaming assisted by violent flashes of light. Steve covers his ears and shuts his eyes, but the sound is still vibrating in his ear drums. It’s so loud. It hurts. His ears are going to start bleeding; the sensation is so unpleasant. Suddenly, there’s silence and ringing in Steve’s ears and spots in his vision.

They continue the pattern all day and by the time Steve collapses from the stress on his body, he can’t really feel anything anymore.

* * *

**Day...Day ???**

They strapped him to the table. Wheeled a machine into the room with few buttons. Injected him with something while simultaneously draining him of blood. The machine cycles his blood and pumps a darker liquid back into his body. They test him with lights and pressure and wounds and beatings and it is the hardest day Steve’s had to endure so far. Or maybe it’s a week? His perception of time is fucked to hell and back and he doesn’t really remember how he got here, because all he can feel is screaming along his nerves and it’s consuming him. 

The man with the slight accent and the unremarkable woman come and go with various non-expressions on their faces. The man speaks to him sometimes but Steve can’t really hear him anymore, or maybe his mind just refuses to make sense of the sounds for interpretation. Steve just stares at the wall.

He does not think about punching Tony Stark for not finding him and then hugging him for the same. It’s almost funny, their friendship, because it’s all Pepper and Bruce’s fault, and Steve couldn’t be more grateful to count Tony as a friend.

He doesn’t think about friendships forged in the heart of a civil war. He does not think about the miracle of Natasha’s smile; a slow-growing thing born in sorrow, blooming into hope. Steve does not think of Sam’s easy kindness etched into every movement of hands, fluttering about like hummingbird’s wings.

Steve does not think about the unspoken ease and acceptance between him and Clint. The raised eyebrows and shared looks of long suffering, the silent offerings of coffee and food, the unconditional borrowing of Clint’s dog.

He does not think of disbelieving brown eyes and a grateful smile and gentleness. Bruce treats Steve gently when even Steve forgets that his heart is still breakable and human. 

He doesn’t think about childlike curiosity and benevolent wisdom wrapped up in kindness and unyielding strength. He doesn’t think about the gentle way Thor interacts with this infant world, lost in its tantrums and egocentricity, he just smiles, nods, and continues forward.

He does not think of eyes he’s had memorized since he was five and a voice steeped in nostalgia. He doesn’t think of Bucky’s resurrection and the way his smile will always hold sadness in its corners but childlike joy at the center. He can’t think of the way Bucky gets truly excited about new things and then flustered when he gushes for a few minutes. He can’t think of lips that once upon a time tasted like smoke but probably taste like coffee now. Steve can’t think of the opportunities he never seized or the words he’s left unspoken for too long or the touches he took advantage of.

He can’t think of any of that or else he’ll just break apart on this lab table; a million pieces of Steve Rogers, scattered on the floor like dust, seconds from the edge.

They break almost every bone in Steve’s body, they take his blood and bone marrow, and then they leave him on the table. The man leans down and says something into Steve’s ear, but it’s lost in the agony. He smiles before turning around and leaving Steve in darkness, again.

Steve knows he will wake up and his body will heal his bones. He knows that many will have to be re-broken in order to set right. He knows that they expect him to just give up and die, but they won’t leave him unguarded.

He doesn’t care.

Steve closes his eyes, greets the monsters behind his eyelids, and falls into the fire.


	6. Of Dimming Shadows in My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the soft pastels of morning light begin to peek around the edges of curtains, Bucky gets up and heads for the roof. He likes the half hour before dawn; before the city wakes up and the world still feels quiet, still feels fragile and human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy your Holiday Special, and thank you so much for being patient with me. Shout outs to Frenchy of course for being amazing.  
> Also, FYI, all of the chapter titles are lyrics from songs in my Stucky playlist, and I'm keeping track so when this story is finished I'll add a chapter or maybe just a note listing all of the songs and artists who inspired my Stucky feelings.  
> So, yeah. Here's this chapter. Enjoy your times in Feelsville. I promise these idiots will kiss soon. Just give them time, to heal and grow and understand.

When Bucky wakes up he discovers that he has been locked in his room, and then he has to wait several hours until Natalia shows up. She scolds him, of course, for breaking Stark’s lab, and then tells him to get his head out of his ass and get down to the lab. In retrospect, he understands that what he did was, objectively speaking, wrong and detrimental to the effort to find Steve, but he has always been, and will always continue to be, irrationally reckless when it comes to his best friend.

When he’s allowed into a lab he didn’t destroy, it is morning, and Bruce gives him a small, apologetic smile and a solemn nod, which he responds to with a nod of his own. Stark, on the other hand, just stares at him for a few moments before letting Bucky know - through clenched teeth - that he gets to help the robots rebuild the lab. Bucky’s not above his pride, so he just nods, says sorry, and then demands an update. He’s handed a tablet and filled in on Barton’s condition: alive but very, _very_ tired and with orders to stay in bed lest the Other Guy shows up to _persuade_ him. He is also given explanations on why they haven’t found Steve yet, but honestly, Bucky doesn’t care about the excuses or the possible leads or how many people are working on the case; what he cares about is finding Steven Grant Rogers, bringing him home, and then kicking the shit out of him for going off half-cocked on such a risky mission. Steve can claim that he understood the risks, but _Bucky_ knows the truth; knows that if Steve sees a chance to die, to save even a single person, he’ll take it. He knows that Steve’s dive into the Arctic wasn’t entirely altruistic; knows that he should really be used to Steve and his death wish. Some small, hopeful part of him wants Steve to just be _that_ stupid.

It is far better than the alternative.

* * *

 

The first three days, of course, are by far the longest. Stark sends Natalia to do sweeps of some Russian factories, has Bruce analyzing data and working with JARVIS, and has his own suits acting as sentries and backup.

He attempts to keep Bucky in the Tower, but after the first week, there are only ashes of HYDRA bases as testimony to their efforts. Steve’s still off the grid.

It does not go well.

There is no screaming or kicking or smashing, which is good, however, there are several threats of life-ending violence, each one more graphic than the last, and in monotone Russian, which is bad. They almost have to put him down again, but Barton comes over the intercoms to tell Stark to back down and tell Bucky to head to the roof to meet Thor.

He stares Stark down, catalogues the various ways he could kill him, remembers that Steve would be upset if he killed one of his friends, and then moves to the elevator. When he strides through the common floor, Darcy looks up from whatever she’s making to give him a small smile before turning back to her work. He’s forgotten, during the nights spent standing at Steve’s doorway and the days spent clenching his fists and gritting his teeth against the lack of results, what human kindness feels like. He’s forgotten, through the screams trapped behind his tongue and the violence at his fingertips, what _humanity_ feels like. For a brief moment, he feels like someone who might’ve smiled back, but the moment is fleeting and he’s already headed through the ‘storage room’. He can hear thunder rumbling nearby as he steps onto the roof. Bucky remembers seeing that recording of Steve up here having an attack and he feels like the lowest of lows, because he should’ve come _running_ when he had the chance. He should’ve burst through the doors and collected Steve in his arms, even though he doesn’t really fit anymore, but they’d make it work, they always do. He’d hug Steve to his chest and let him hide in his neck like he did after his Ma died and they’d just _be_ together while they could.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain, but your palms know tenderness and your arms were made to hold, so reach out with your strong limbs and fragile heart and touch, caress, embrace, until your finger forgets the trigger and your lips default upwards._

Bucky looks up at the swirling mass of clouds and sets his jaw. A flash of lightning momentarily blinds him, but he blinks the spots from his vision and looks up. A man who could be Steve’s older brother stands proud and tall before him.

“I am Thor, Prince of Asgard, protector of the Nine Realms, and friend of Steven Rogers,” the man presses a closed fist to his heart and gives a small bow. When he looks back up at Bucky, there is a small smile on his face, but it is tight at the edges. Thor strides forward, right hand outstretched, to shake Bucky’s hand .

“You are James Buchanan, shield-brother to the Captain, correct?” Thor asks in his booming voice. Bucky just nods in response; a little awestruck at the guy in front of him because _wow._

“I was distraught when Heimdall summoned me with the news of Steve’s capture. When asked if he could find Steve, Heimdall informed me that there was something blocking his vision from reaching the Captain. I fear another party has a hand in this scheme,” without noticing it, Bucky finds himself walking beside Thor into the common room. Seriously, this guy, just _wow._

“Thor!” Darcy grins and runs over to embrace Thor in a very strong hug.

“Lady Darcy! It is a fine day that I am surrounded by such company. My apologies for not visiting sooner,” Thor bows again when they separate.

“It’s cool big guy. I just wish you had a less shitty reason to visit us,” Darcy’s eyes flash to Bucky for a moment, but he lets it pass without recognition. Pity exposes weakness, and a year or so ago he would’ve been snapping at everyone about the clear pity in their eyes, but Bucky has never been, and will never be, ashamed of the fact that Steve has always been his weakness.

Marissa would be proud of him. Steve would be proud of him too. Fuck it, Bucky is proud of _himself_.

“Indeed, Lady Darcy. Let us hope that my stay is punctuated with homecoming revels, yes?” Thor squeezes Darcy’s hand before giving Bucky a solemn nod and moving away towards the elevators. Bucky moves to follow him but is stopped by a small, smooth hand gripping his metal wrist. The flinch is completely involuntary but, thankfully, small. Everyone is wary of touching him now, with good reason, because he can feel the smouldering flame flickering just beneath his skin, ready to ignite at the slightest spark. Natalia and Wilson touch him gently on fleeting occasions, but those instances have gotten farther and fewer between since Steve’s kidnapping. Stark is still mad about the lab thing and Bruce is more wary of himself than he is of Bucky. Clint hasn’t been conscious enough and Bucky has been preoccupied with the search for Steve, so he hasn’t visited him in the med-bay. He hasn’t been touched kindly in weeks, and the only touching he’s done is either unbearably tender (his human hand has brushed over Steve’s doorknob and the cool sheets of Steve’s bed more times than he can count) or horrifically violent (he tried to run the way Steve runs, but his demons are far too fast, so he settles for punching things in the training room).

But here Darcy is, arguably one of the most vulnerable and _breakable_ people in their little family, and she is touching _the weapon_ with care and reverence as if it were made of brittle bone and soft skin.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain, but your palms know tenderness and your arms were made to hold; so reach out with your strong limbs and fragile heart and touch, caress, embrace-_

It’s such a small thing, but his emotions have been very literally all over the place and Bucky doesn’t need to justify to anyone, not even himself, why he suddenly hugs Darcy like she’s about to break, when he’s the one who feels like he’s shattering.

And Darcy, bless her, just hugs him back without hesitation and it’s everything Bucky needs right now.

It’s easy to forget how truly wonderful _hugs_ are when he’s always busy worrying. He wraps around her and she wraps around him and it’s _safe_ and it doesn’t _actually_ make everything okay, it doesn’t bring Steve back faster, it doesn’t undo the damage he’s done, it doesn’t do anything to ease the vacuum of despair in his chest, but it makes him feel _connected_ and _real_ and that’s just as important.

Bucky breaks away and Darcy just smiles at him before opening and closing her mouth, patting him on the arm, and walking back to whatever she was doing in the kitchen.

Bless Darcy Lewis.

Bucky doesn’t linger because as good as the hug was, he needs to find Steve and bring him home so Bucky can never let him out of his sight _ever_ again.

* * *

It takes another two months and the only reason Bucky hasn’t actually killed everything in sight is because he’s been burning down HYDRA bases one right after the other. He hasn’t been back to the Tower in almost three weeks because he’s been jumping from one hell-hole to another. And the thing is, he doesn’t even _want_ to be violent; he doesn’t want to snap necks or crush skulls or eviscerate people. He doesn’t want to be a weapon anymore, but the alternative is screaming and crying and falling into a pit of despair because it’s been months and he hasn’t found Steve yet and he can _feel_ the rest of the team slowly losing hope.

It’s not the best coping tactic because it does require some level of dissociation on his part and that’s not good, but falling apart would definitely be _worse._ He’s doing this for Steve, because Steve has been a constant source of unbridled good in Bucky’s life and he _needs him._ Bucky needs to find Steve so he can return the favor, so he can watch Steve blossom and bloom in the sunshine.

What surprises Bucky, however, is how vehemently _Stark_ searches for Steve, how much energy and money he expends, how many governments he threatens, how far he is willing to go to save Steve’s life. They’re often in the lab late into the night together, Natalia or Wilson will occasionally join them, but most often they’re by themselves. It’s on one of these nights that Bucky broaches the subject because they’d just returned from another failed mission to Croatia and neither of them had even bothered to remove their gear.  

“It’s getting hopeless. They’re going to give up soon, you know? They’re gonna hate it and mourn, but they’re going to give up eventually,” Bucky says without looking away from his monitor. Silence settles back in for a few moments and Bucky is almost convinced that Stark didn’t hear him.

“Well, I’m not. We’re going to find him even if we have to burn half the goddamn world down,” Stark spits out.

“Is it because you were a prisoner too?” Bucky knows that he shouldn’t pry, but they were pretty okay friends before this whole clusterfuck happened.

“Yes and no,” Stark replies, and Bucky can tell that he’s trying to avoid the subject, but human curiosity is a funny thing.

“You in love with him or something?” Bucky’s seen the leaked tapes and with the way him and Steve revolve around each other sometimes, he would not be surprised in the slightest. He completely gets it too, because he could never understand how the whole of Brooklyn wasn’t hopelessly enamored with Steve back in the day.

But Stark surprises him by chuckling so hard that it turns into hysterical laughter after a minute or two. Bucky simply turns in his chair to stare Stark down while JARVIS continues breaking through HYDRA encryption codes.

“What?”

“No, it’s just- you know what, it’s nothing. But no, for the record, stars and stripes aren’t my thing; Steve is just...he’s not Captain America, you know?” Stark replies and it’s like Bucky’s eyes just opened, because he’s been floating in existential limbo for the past few months and Stark is suddenly _Tony_ again and he’s so thankful that Tony sees Steve the way he does, at least a little bit, because _yes._

“Finally got your own head out of your ass to figure that one out?” Bucky shoots back because he _knows_ about the argument from the Helicarrier. He found out a couple of weeks ago because JARVIS is clearly one-hundred percent okay with selling Tony out. The fact that Bucky was sort of crying in Steve’s room while looking at the picture of them laughing together probably helped.

“After the Battle of New York, Steve disappeared into the countryside for a while, probably to get his head on straight, but he would come back on the weekends sometimes to help with the clean up; I know because JARVIS found security footage of him shoveling debris,” Tony pushes back from his table and runs his hands through his hair and over his face, and Bucky sees the little stress wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth.

“I didn’t mention it, but I expected this patriotic jarhead, you know? A ‘perfect soldier’ incapable of having his own thoughts or worse, this paragon of everything good and pure and naive, because I didn’t want to understand _why_ my dad spent my entire childhood searching for him. Instead, I just saw this lost guy trying -and failing- to adjust to the 21st century. I felt bad, because I hate sympathizing, but I could relate. After I got back from Afghanistan, I felt like a stranger in a strange land.” Tony levels Bucky with this _look_ and he doesn’t know the exact translation, but it gives him pause nonetheless.

“Me, I tinker. I build suits and restore cars and invent new technology; it’s how I cope. But Steve? He shuts down and pretends he doesn’t have any _right_ to cope,” Tony continues, and Bucky is so glad that Steve has friends like Tony, Natalia, and Wilson. He’s never acted like it, but Steve _needs_ someone to care about him and remind him to go out and embrace the sun.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain, but your palms know tenderness and your arms were made to hold; so reach out with your strong limbs and fragile heart-_

“Bruce pushed me into it, because Bruce is a softie and for whatever reason, they get along really well. One day, near the end of the cleanup, I called him up here and asked him to paint some portraits for me. Howard kept a few of Steve’s old sketches, and everyone knows he was an artist, but he said he didn’t ‘do that sort of thing’ anymore,” Tony made the air quotes with a scowl on his face.

“I kept pestering him about it for months until, eventually, he caved, and _somehow,_ I understood him better,” Tony says quietly.

They share a moment of silence after Tony’s soul-bearing.

Bucky thinks about how much Steve used to draw, even after Azzano. Not only that, but he thinks of all the _things_ Steve used to draw. Before the war, when they were young men, Steve would draw Bucky’s family almost religiously. Winifred and George Barnes even paid Steve for portraits of Bucky’s sisters. He drew his Ma too, mostly with more attention on her face and hands; always smiling or telling stories with her fingertips.

When they lived together though, Steve drew Bucky the most. After work or on lazy Sunday mornings when neither of them could be bothered to pretend to be functioning members of society, Steve would draw Bucky. Sleep-soft and half-awake, an arm thrown over his eyes and legs twisted up in his thin blanket, Bucky would just lay there while Steve filled their shared room with the sounds of graphite on cheap paper. Sometimes he’d draw Bucky’s dates - _from memory, no less-_ just for some variety, but the thin pages of sketchbooks lost to time and death and war and revolution, are mostly filled with the slope of Bucky’s human shoulders and the shadows of his smiling face.

“Pepper’s always wanted to sit for a painting, and watching Steve actually sketch her out and then fill her in over the course of a few weeks was... _achingly familiar,_ ” Tony pauses and bites his lip, clearly uncomfortable. If Bucky’s being honest with himself, he’s a little uncomfortable too; him and Tony don’t have heart-to-hearts. They talk about tech and upgrades for the arm and, okay, _maybe_ they’ve marathoned _Catfish_ in the dark of night, but no one needs to know about that.

They don’t talk after that; the grief between them too strong for words to break through. They’re the only ones in the lab and JARVIS is doing most of the work, but it makes them feel useful. He doubts many of the others are sleeping, but they can only charge forward for so long before they need to rest. The only reason Bucky is semi-lucid is through sheer force of will.

When the soft pastels of morning light begin to peek around the edges of curtains, Bucky gets up and heads for the roof. He likes the half hour before dawn; before the city wakes up and the world still feels quiet, still feels fragile and _human._ He likes the early mornings because he knows Steve _loves_ them. By the time the sun has just begun to ascend over the horizon, the rest of the team has joined him. Somehow over the course of Bucky’s constant patronage to the Sunrise Show, the rest of the team began to join him. Bruce will stumble onto the rooftop, often accompanied by Darcy or Tony. Jane never comes, but that’s because she’s either still asleep or in a different country, continuing on with her life but keeping her ear to the ground just in case. Thor comes with Barton, and they like to perch on the edge with their legs hanging off the side. Natalia or Wilson will bring him coffee in Steve’s mug and sometimes brush their fingertips together gently, metal and flesh, a reminder or a promise or a comfort or all of the above.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain, but your palms know tenderness and your arms were made to hold; so reach out-_

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly to all of them. Natalia’s eyes widen, and some of the others flinch a little, but he mostly gets slow blinks and sorrowful stares.

“When Steve was five, he got hit in the ear by a stray baseball and instead of crying, he tried to throw it back to the boys playing down the street, but accidentally hit someone else in the ear instead,” Bucky sips his coffee and traces the simple star pattern on Steve’s mug. He doesn’t get a reaction immediately, so he stares out at the city with its car horns and people rushing about their lives and he _knows_ that somewhere, in this sprawling city he once knew like the back of his hand, _someone_ is taking a moment to appreciate this wonderfully messy life.

“In Austria, yeah you remember Austria you slippery bastard,” Wilson starts with a smirk and an eyeroll in Bucky’s general direction, “Steve and I were looking through some HYDRA files and out of literally _nowhere_ he just grabs _my_ pen and draws _a penis_ on every single HYDRA insignia he can find. When he was done, he handed my pen back to me and kept reading like he didn’t just defile 50 year old stationary with his phallic imagination.” That makes Bucky chuckle and Barton spit coffee all over himself and even Natalia is smiling softly. The sun is rising higher in the sky, the clouds are big and threat-free, and Bucky Barnes is on the roof of his home, drinking coffee, and smiling with his friends.

They’re not talking about Steve like he’s a lost cause or, worse, _dead._ If they were, Bucky would be furious, but he started this chain of thought, because they’ve been trying to track Steve’s suit or his shield or HYDRA activity, but it feels like they’ve forgotten _him_ : Steven Grant Rogers, tough as nails child and subversive adult. He’s their _friend_ and he’s lost and they’re going to find him.

They stay up there for a while, eventually settling on ledges or leaning on boxes and sharing stories. It feels like the first truly human thing Bucky has done in weeks and when they all head back down to continue the search, there is some levity in the air.

* * *

Bucky skips breakfast (it doesn’t feel right without Steve making French toast in the background) and heads straight for the lab. Bruce is there, going over feeds from Asia, Thor is clearly twitching for a fight (pent up frustration and anger is something Bucky understands _perfectly_ ) but is dutifully studying his feeds from South America, Natalia is researching Europe with emphasis on Russia, Wilson is pouring over details from Africa, and Tony is data-mining with JARVIS.

 _“Sir, call from Director Coulson,”_ JARVIS intones.

“Throw it up on the big screen, J,” Tony rolls back from his table to sit in the middle of the room. Bucky glances up to where a bland man stares into the room but otherwise continues his work.

“Agent,” Tony greets in a clipped tone.

“It’s Director now,” Coulson replies.

The two men stare each other down for a minute.  

“I’ve got a tip about Steve,” Coulson says softly.

Bucky is standing next to Tony before any of the others even think to move with his arms crossed and a glare directed at Coulson.

“How’d you get it before us?” Tony asks which, Bucky thinks, should really not be a main focus right now.

“Someone cornered one of my agents and left a message,” Coulson replies coolly.

“Send me everything,” Tony swivels back to his table and starts moving things around.

“Where?” Bucky asks the screen.

“Leshan, China.”

Bucky nods and turns around, already heading for the quinjet. He keeps his uniform there and a small arsenal of weapons just in case. Wilson and Natalia follow him with some mumbled words to Bruce about Barton and an apology to Thor about being put on standby. Natalia takes the wheel while Bucky and Wilson change in the back and start checking their equipment.

“So, the giant statue of Buddha in Leshan? Nowhere near it, which is good, because, ugh, _tourists_ , but unfortunately, I’ve got no eyes on the coordinates of the place. It’s an underground warehouse and you’re going in blind. Comms should be fine though,” Tony’s voice comes in over the speakers.

“I’ve got JARVIS searching for any blueprints or mention of it, but so far, there’s nothing. I’m sifting through the info from Coulson, but it’s not much. If Steve is there, do me a favor and steal as much as you can from them before blowing them up, yeah?” There’s a click and then Tony’s voice is gone, leaving Wilson and Bucky to inspect their weapons in silence.

“Oh, also, I made you guys some new bombs; top left shelf,” Tony says and Bucky can hear how smug he feels. He can’t really explain it, but there’s an itch under his skin, like he _knows_ Steve is there. He hopes Steve is there; he wants it more than anything in the world. It has been months since he last heard Steve’s voice or saw him smile and he _misses him so damn much it’s a literal ache in his chest._

Wilson goes for the bombs and looks them over for a few moments before slipping some into his pockets. He brings a few over to Bucky and sits them on top of one of his holsters before going back to his side of the jet and checking his wing pack. They’re moving pretty fast, but they’ve still got a long ride ahead of them. Wilson will probably try to nap right before they get there to conserve energy, but Bucky will be too keyed up to even attempt sleep.

The three of them fly across the country, through darkening skies and over sleepy, oblivious towns. The ride is silent, but Bucky’s mind is loud. Wilson and Natalia will occasionally say something to each other in the cockpit, but Bucky doesn’t catch most of it.

He thinks about the past few months, because despite it being hard emotionally, he’s been getting by. He’s nowhere near as okay as he is _with_ Steve, but he knows that given time - _decades_ \- he would be fine. He’d be fairly happy and functioning, but he wouldn’t be _whole_ because that’s the effect some people have on each other; that’s the effect Steve has had on him. His mornings would be quiet, but his day would not be empty. His evenings would more than likely be spent alone, but he would not be lonely.

It’s a bit codependent the way they’ve always leant on each other, but they grew up in each other’s pockets, fought together and died together and here they are again, _together._ Bucky sees Steve more clearly now than he did half a year ago when they were around each other all of the time, but Bucky was determined to not lean on Steve, especially after he came in from the cold. He wanted to stand on his own, wanted to take back his autonomy on his own because as much as Steve wanted to, he couldn’t save Bucky from himself. When Bucky did come back to himself, however, the damage was done, and Steve - the martyr- was convinced that Bucky didn’t need him anymore, didn’t _want_ him anymore. As if Steve were a _thing_ that Bucky could return to sender.

But Bucky had made _progress_ with Steve; they spent evenings not just reacting to nightmares, but together and hanging out because they _wanted_ to. They talked about mundane things and relearned some parts of the world together. Sometimes they’d simply sit on opposite ends of the couch and rest their feet on each other while they read books or watched videos. And, miracle of miracles, Steve _smiled_ more often and his shoulders lost that slump like they carried the weight of the world and Bucky was so _proud_ of him. Wilson was right, Steve wasn’t broken; he was just lost and unsure of his place in the world anymore.

Bucky gets that.

He can live without Steve, just as he’s sure Steve could live without him. But he doesn’t _want_ to; they’ve spent far too long fighting to get back to each other to give up now. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Steve isn’t in China, hell, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Steve _is._ Bucky will blow the place up, definitely, and get Steve back to the Tower, but beyond that, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want to let himself hope too much, because if Steve isn’t there, it’ll just be another crushing blow.

Natalia joins him after some time and sits on the bench across from him. Bucky can feel her eyes on him, but he doesn’t meet her gaze; he can’t because he knows he will find nothing but understanding there and he can’t stand it right now.

“This is it, James,” she says after an hour or so. They’re flying over the Pacific now and it is dark outside the windows in the front. Time is funny, Bucky thinks, because they will technically arrive in China before they leave New York.

“Do you know that?” Bucky responds lowly.

“Yes,” and Bucky wishes he could be as certain as her that HYDRA is done with Steve, has decided to give him up. But he knows the likelihood of them getting Steve back, let alone getting him back _alive_ and unaltered, is about as likely as the sun setting in the east.

The silence drags on after that; the air around them weighed down by uncertainty and hope.

“Two hours out,” Natalia says after some time and the three of them silently burst into action. Since JARVIS is hardwired into the jet’s controls, he’ll drop them a few miles out from the coordinates and then land somewhere discreet until one of them calls for extraction.

Bucky checks his weapons again; it’s a pattern he’s fallen into since he started going on these ops. He starts with the knives, making sure they are sharpened and cleaned to perfection, snug in their individual holsters. Afterwords, he checks his guns; he makes sure he has extra ammo and that his holsters are just tight enough to let him move quickly without dislodging his weapons. Finally, he checks his bombs, the new breed that Tony made that are lighter and smaller, and the old ones, small cubes that pack a nice punch.

From the corner of his eye he sees Natalia checking the charge on her Widow’s Bites, which is normal and routine, but she is also strapping several guns and knives to her body, which is slightly irregular. Natalia likes to be stealthy, likes using her slight build to her advantage, likes appearing small and fragile before she snaps necks. To make noise, even during a noisy op, is not Natalia Romanova’s style. She must truly believe that Steve is here, or she has reached the point of detachment, and Bucky can sympathize because he’s _almost_ there too.

Ever since Steve was captured, every op, every mission to burn down a supposed HYDRA base, every snapped neck, every explosion, every droplet of blood, all of it was done without a second thought. Whatever survivors managed to escape were scooped up by Coulson’s team, sometimes dropped off with another government agency, sometimes executed. Some crimes are just too unforgivable. Any and all intel they stole was data-mined until it led them somewhere else. Slowly but surely, they have been eradicating HYDRA from the face of the earth, and Bucky wishes Steve didn’t have to be the catalyst, but he’s also _damn glad_ that action is being taken.

“Two minutes to drop; radio silence until necessary” Natalia calls from the front. They all line up at the ramp, no parachutes, because Bucky is more than durable and Wilson will drop Natalia at a more reasonable height.

 _“Good luck, Sirs, Ms. Romanov,”_ JARVIS says as the bay door opens. It’s dark, but Bucky can see the faint impression of light pollution to the North. The air is cold and wet, and the wind bites at his exposed cheeks, but adrenaline is already starting to make it’s way through his body and any discomfort is easy to ignore. They have to move through the wilderness for about 5 miles before they reach the coordinates Coulson received, but from that moment on, they move purely on their own merits. They decided, as they were leaving, to maintain radio silence until they reached their destination. Tony is certain that it’s underground, because the satellite imaging he _was_ able to get showed nothing but trees. Infrared imaging showed nothing unusual for the location, either, so they really are flying blind.

Bucky jumps first. They’re not high enough for anything to break; his boots are reinforced to almost superfluous strength, and the trees are soft on the kevlar and body armor of his suit. As soon as he has his bearings, he’s scoping the immediate area for threats. He hears the muted thump-thump of both Natalia and Wilson landing to his left and, pivoting every other footstep, he begins to head in their direction.

When the three converge, Natalia indicates that Bucky is to take point and that Wilson is to take the rear. They will hike for a few miles through the forest to the coordinates, and then, they will take a leap of faith.

The trip is silent save for the faint crunch of detritus under their boots. There is a constant hum in the air, like white noise but quieter, softer, and more intense. Any local animals have all scurried off, the breeze is gentle but cold, and the darkness is heavy. It’s Autumn back in New York, and China isn’t much cooler, however, Winter _is_ fast approaching and snow can hide _so much_.

It suddenly occurs to Bucky that they’ve missed Steve’s birthday; that _Steve_ missed his birthday. Bucky had been so wrapped up in the search, had probably been in Western Europe blowing something up, when Steve had turned 29. Bucky’s birthday was in March; a quiet affair with just the team and friends in the common room, watching movies and playing games and drinking far too much alcohol. What Bucky remembers the most about that night, especially now as he crawls through a forest in China, is the way Steve had blushed and apologized for not getting Bucky something nicer (a small collection of first edition hardbacks is more than _nice,_ Rogers).

Bucky holds on to the memory of pulling Steve into his arms and hugging the breath out of him that night as he signals Natalia and Wilson that they’re quickly approaching the coordinates.

There’s a semi-empty field ahead of them; it’s small and nondescript, and would definitely pass satellite screening if anyone was looking. He thinks about the warmth in Steve’s eyes when he wished Bucky a happy birthday while he waits for Natalia to scope out the clearing.

Instead of letting them know that she’s found something, Natalia opens a door in the ground and begins her descent. Wilson follows after her and Bucky takes the rear to watch their six. He leaves the door open just in case they can’t find another exit point.

There are stairs leading straight down at an easy slope, and Bucky can see a faint yellowish light at the end of the tunnel. The walls are high and concrete; the air is cold and dry. Their combined footfalls hardly echo and the light at the end of the hallway does not get brighter as they go nearer. At the end of the hallway, they end up overlooking a massive warehouse that looks more like an abandoned underground airport. There are walkways crisscrossing in every direction, stretching on and on in front of them. There are skylights that cast space shadows on the concrete walls and empty glass rooms.

Natasha goes left, Bucky goes right, and Wilson flies forward. He moves quickly over the walkway, nothing but small glass rooms lining his way; most of them are empty save for a chair or a desk here and there. For all intents and purposes, the warehouse is empty. He occasionally sees Wilson ducking and weaving between the rooms, and Natalia is keeping pace with him across the room on her walkway.

So far, he’s not particularly hopeful that they will find Steve. It’s clear that this warehouse, if it is HYDRA’s, has been abandoned. Thermal scans showed _nothing,_ the forest showed _nothing,_ and now Bucky sees _nothing._

Bucky lowers his gun and keeps walking, ignoring the look he can feel Natalia trying to burn into his head. He’s so tired of this; this ceaseless violence and constant humming of anger and regret under his skin. He won’t ever stop looking for Steve, that’s a given, but this empty underground warehouse in the middle of China hits too close to home. At least with all of the other facilities, factories, office buildings, and cargo ships, there were signs of life. There were agents caught off-guard, which gave him hope that Steve would be there because they wouldn’t have time to move him. But here, in this empty shell, there is nothing.

“He’s not here,” Bucky calls out to his companions. They haven’t even covered half the length of the space, but Bucky sees no change down the rows of rooms fading into storage containers.

“We’re gonna be thorough, James,” Natalia responds coolly, weapon lowered but not holstered like Bucky’s. He doesn’t answer her, but he keeps moving forward and he keeps his eyes peeled just in case. He would never be more glad to be proven wrong. They search in silence for a few more minutes until they hear a crash from the far end of the warehouse. Bucky doesn’t even glance at Natalia, he just takes off running because that’s where Wilson flew. Hope bursts outward from the center of his chest, driving his feet forward, because _there’s no gunfire._ Hope blooms in his heart; a fragile flower in a cold place.

“Steve?” he yells out because all he knows is that Wilson is in the back _somewhere._

“Sorry, Bucky, I gotta fly him out! Get back to the quinjet; I just called for JARVIS,” he hears Wilson yell down to him and not a moment later, Bucky sees him, as he flies past, cradling a body that is both too big and too small in his arms. As he’s running back across the rattling walkway, he drops his bombs and arms the trigger. Natalia is nowhere in sight, but he assumes she is either headed back or mining data.

There’s a memory, like an old photograph, faded at the edges and details lost but recognizable through the grime. It tugs at the back of his mind as he sprints towards the exit. Him and Steve are in a place with walkways and everything is on fire. Some of the details are foggy and it’s _painful_ to remember, but Bucky knows that this memory is important. Steve is yelling at him to...go on and he’s screaming _no_ . And then Steve- Steve runs and- he runs and jumps across a sea of fire and then they run _together._

Yeah, that sounds about right.

He can hear Natalia’s footsteps pounding behind him, so he runs faster and before he is wholly ready, he’s up the stairs and bursting back out into the forest. The quinjet is already open and warming up to take off again.

Bucky can _see Steve._ He rushes up the ramp and leans over Steve protectively, flesh hand already moving to card through his hair. It’s matted and dirty, much like the rest of him, but it’s _perfect_ because it’s _real._ Steve is covered in bruises and scratches and puncture marks and some of his bones haven’t set right and there are suitcases under his closed eyes but Bucky has never seen anything more amazing.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky croaks out and suddenly he’s crying, silent, shaking sobs.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain, but your palms know tenderness-_

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, Stevie, hey. God I’ve missed you so much. Never again. You’re never doing this to me again,” Bucky cries softly into the air above Steve’s hair right before he tucks his face into Steve’s shoulder, one hand still in his hair, the other one resting lightly on his abdomen. It’s such a visceral comfort to feel Steve breathing; to feel the up and down of his chest and the faint double-thump of his heart.

Wilson appears a few minutes later to do a quick scan of Steve’s body and Natalia takes his weapons to store them away, but other than that, he is left alone. For the first time in months, it is a _calm_ silence that descends over his mind.

Bucky thinks of beautiful things while he watches Steve breathe. There is a small monitor nearby with Steve’s heartbeat and blood pressure on display, but Bucky prefers feeling Steve’s sternum rise and fall and rise again.

He remembers this, sitting at Steve’s bedside and watching him sleep. After Steve’s Ma died and they started living together, he would watch Steve sleep whenever he was sick. Bucky remembers spending many sleepless nights just like this, one hand on his chest and sometimes one in his hair, just offering support and comfort to his best friend when he needed it most.

But it’s different this time. Not just the situation, of course, but this feeling that’s coursing through Bucky; it’s different. It’s like he’s seeing Steve for the first time and although the view is a bit heart wrenching, he’s still never seen anything more endearing. And Steve is beautiful, always has been, always will be, but right now, in the low lighting of the quinjet, sallow skin and limp hair, hollow cheeks and cracked lips, Steve is more than beauty. It makes no goddamned sense, because Bucky should be wanting to rip apart the bastards that did this to Steve, but really, all he wants is to curl around his best friend until he wakes up.

Bucky can’t quantify this feeling though; he can’t recall a time he ever felt so strongly about anyone else in his life. This feeling is so much stronger than anything he knows, and he thought his determination to find Steve was the zenith of what he felt for the man but, well, he was wrong. A few months ago when this horrid thing began, he couldn’t really put into words _why_ he was so determined to find Steve, all he knew, was that his world would be incomplete without him. He could come up with reasons, sure, like they’ve known each other their whole lives and they’ve been best friends and they fought a war or two together, but it's deeper than that.

He can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. He could and would happily sit by Steve’s bedside and watch him sleep for years, but he also wants Steve to open his eyes so he can stare into his soul and ground himself to the present. He wants to run his fingers, flesh and metal, through Steve’s hair a million times until he’s memorized the texture.

He cards his fingers through Steve’s hair lightly and relishes the soft sigh he makes in response. Bucky could waste hours running his mind in circles about this, but he’s got his favorite person back, so he’s going to enjoy this quiet time before the medical exams and interrogations and fallout occur.  

“Tony’s going to want to throw you a birthday party, you know?” Bucky says softly as he leans down so that his face is right next to Steve’s and he’s more or less hugging his torso.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go, given the givens. Hell, I’m pretty sure if you gave him your puppy-eyes, he’d cave and just complain for a year until he could throw you a two-for-one party,” Bucky laughs and his eyes catch on the way. Steve’s neck breaks out in little goosebumps in reaction to his warm breath.

“Thor’s here too. Man, he’s going to be so happy to see you. Everyone is going to be happy to see you; it’s not the same around the Tower without you,” Bucky drops his voice lower before continuing.

“I know you choose not to interact too much, but Steve, you have no idea how much, how _fiercely_ you are loved by everyone who knows you.” Bucky sighs quietly but shakes his head. Steve would just blame himself for anything he felt was a shortcoming. Which is complete bullshit as far as Bucky is concerned because he’s not perfect, but he’s _good_ and he tries so hard to do the right thing and he’s so earnest that it’s hard to be mad at him for anything.

“I’m sorry it took so long for us to find you. I’m sorry that HYDRA had to leave a tip with one of Coulson’s team. I’m sorry we couldn’t rush in, guns blazin', classic Captain America-style. Steve, god Stevie, I’m _so sorry_ I didn’t do more, didn’t do _better._ But I know you, and you’d tell me I tried my hardest, and you’d say you were just happy that I came at all, because you’re a silly mook who doesn’t know his own worth,” Bucky coughs out a cross between a laugh and a sob, but he pushes on. He’s got a few more hours before they touch down in New York and he won’t be able to get this out once everyone is fawning over Steve. Here, with Natalia and Wilson in the cockpit, he’s safe to bare his soul a little bit more.

“Point is…there is no point, kid. I’m just so fucking glad we got you back. I’ll let everyone smother you for a few days, but after that, Steven Grant Rogers, I am not letting you out of my sight. Yeah, I’m still a little mad about the whole ‘milk run’ thing, don’t think I forgot,” Bucky laughs at that and his chest feels lighter for it; the tight coil of worry slowly unraveling itself the more he feels Steve breathe.

“No more missions for a while, okay? Not unless it’s a situation that would call for every single one of us and everyone else we know. No more missions, Steve. I can’t - I can’t do this again. I can’t lose you again. I won’t stop you if you’re determined to go, but _please Steve._ Please, just, just _come home_ and let’s learn the world together. Let’s fill our days with recipes and sightseeing and learning and _softness,_ ” Bucky takes a deep breath before continuing and he knows that Steve probably can’t hear him, but he’d like to think that some part of Steve _does._ Maybe his atoms are absorbing the vibration of Bucky’s words. Maybe they’re sinking into his skin like drops of sunlight. Bucky would like to think so.

“Our lives have been filled with sharp edges for too long. I’m better at pulling triggers than I am at working the coffee machine. You’re better at battle strategies than you are at planning dinner. We deserve a break, you know? _You_ deserve a break, Steve. Let’s just…let’s just _be alive_ together for once in our lives. I’m tired of fighting other men’s wars, Stevie,” Bucky leans his forehead against Steve’s shoulder and feels his own slump.

“I’ll go wherever you go. But hey, we still have to watch _The Legend of Korra_ , so we’ve got time,” Bucky smiles down at Steve for a minute before he lets himself fall completely silent.

_You fear touch because your fingertips are too familiar with pain-_

Bucky spends the remainder of the flight cataloging Steve. He’s clearly lost weight; his ribs are too close to the surface and his face is too narrow. It makes his shoulder to waist ratio look even more ridiculous because there’s less padding around his hips, and Bucky can imagine how Steve’s shoulder blades look now, more like folded wings than anything. His legs are clearly atrophied and he’s covered in bruises, scratches, and puncture marks. Whatever they did to him in there, Steve’s serum isn’t working as quickly as it should, but he’s on a nutritional IV right now and Bucky can already see some color returning to his skin.

 _“Thirty minutes from the Tower. Bruce is prepping the med-bay,”_ Natalia’s voice comes over the PA system, calm and cool as ever. At some point during the flight, Wilson had stripped off his gear and taken a seat across from where Bucky sat with Steve. He had his head leaned back against the wall and his eyes were half closed, but it was clear that he was wide awake by the stiff set of his shoulders. Bucky glanced down at his still armor-clad body and then back to his hand on Steve’s chest. He flickered his eyes towards Wilson and noted the small uptick of one side of his mouth - the asshole. Bucky heaves a put-upon sigh and removes his hands from Steve’s warmth so he can remove his weapons and armor. Wilson happily moves closer to Steve, not quite taking Bucky’s spot, but it is a close thing.

Bucky is only a few paces away, still within full sight of Steve, close enough to count his breaths, but even so, it is _too far._ Bucky mentally shakes himself; codependency isn’t a good look on anyone. But he should get a free pass on the whole codependency lecture, right? Because this is _Steve,_ this is his best friend in the whole world and they’re allowed to be a little codependent, _especially_ because they spent so long being torn apart or fearing that the other was dead or not knowing if they were good enough to still be friends and _fuck it_.

When they land at the Tower, the entire team is waiting for them, including Darcy, Jane, and Pepper. Bucky keeps a steady hand on Steve’s chest as they wheel him into the med-bay, while Wilson and Natalia speak to everyone in hushed tones about what they found in China. Tony swears and rattles off confusing instructions to JARVIS. 

“Alright, alright, give me some space to work,” Bruce waves his hands as if clearing smoke, but Bucky only takes a step back to let the doctor through. If they want him gone, they’re going to have to bodily remove him, but no one so much as blinks in his direction. He gets gentle pats on the arm from several people as they move to the observation room next door, but his eyes don’t stray from Steve’s face. Bruce has JARVIS dictate while he does a physical check, and then asks for a nurse to come and help him take a few blood samples for further investigation. It’s gentle and swift and Bucky couldn’t be more grateful to the doctor. He knows this is hard for everyone, because they all love Steve in their own ways, and it’s never easy seeing a teammate on a hospital gurney. Bruce sets a gentle hand on Bucky’s elbow when he’s finished and offers him a wan smile.

“Given how much weight he’s lost and how slowly his bruises are healing, it seems that his healing factor is focused solely on keeping him alive. I’ve ordered a high-protein IV drip so he’ll be fine in a day or two. No trauma to his head, which means he’ll wake up whenever he’s ready, could be a few hours, could be a few days. He’s probably just exhausted,” Bruce looks speculatively at Steve’s prone form, but Bucky can already see that his breathing is stronger and his skin has gone from ghostly pale to agoraphobic Irish.

“However,” Bruce continues grimly, “several of his bones will need to be re-broken and then set correctly. I don’t want to do it now, because I have no idea what the physical stress will do to him, but after he wakes up,” Bruce clenches his jaw tightly instead of finishing. It wouldn’t be the first time Steve would have to get some bones reset, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s going to be painful. They’ll likely give him a local anesthetic, or at least Bucky _hopes_ they do.

“Only two at a time guys, I mean it. Get some rest, Bucky,” Bruce looks at him accusingly and Bucky has the good sense to look at least partially ashamed. He had tried to hide it at first, but his exhaustion and fear was written into every crease of skin at this point. Bucky nods slightly to Bruce and then pulls up a chair on Steve’s left, his metal hand going right back to Steve’s sternum and his flesh hand holding his head up as he leans in close to Steve’s ear.

“Doc says you’re going to be fine, kid, but I’ll believe it when you open your eyes. Wake up for me, Stevie, so I can start breathing again,” Bucky whispers just before Clint strides in to lean against the other side of Steve’s bed.

Clint doesn’t say anything to either of them, he just rests his right hand lightly on Steve’s arm and taps absent-minded rhythms into the skin of his inner elbow. They watch Steve breathe in companionable silence for about ten minutes before Clint says something.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him home months ago, Bucky.” And that throws Bucky for a loop, because not even for a second did he blame Clint for any of this.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? He’s home now,” Bucky replies as sincerely as he can. All of his anger these past few months is falling away with every minute he spends with Steve, and Bucky is starting to remember who he was before all of this nonsense and heartache. He knits at Natalia’s feet, he cooks with Wilson, he talks about tech with Tony, he helps Darcy and Jane lift heavy things, and he shoots the shit with Clint. That’s who he is now.

And then there’s Steve, and the simplest way Bucky can think of it is that he _lives_ with Steve in every form of the word.

Clint doesn’t respond, just nods and looks at Steve for a few moments more before leaving just as swiftly and silently as he came. No one else comes for the remainder of the night. Bucky’s only got a few hours until dawn, until one by one everyone will come to watch Steve sleep.

“I’m glad Wilson found you. Even though I wish I was the one to pull you out of there, I’m glad he found you, because I would’ve probably just stood there in shock. He got you out fast, had you hooked up to a nutritional IV before I even stepped foot on the quinjet,” Bucky leans his head down on the pillow next to Steve’s. The lights in this room are dim and the wireless heart monitor is a soft soundtrack in the background.

“Thank you for introducing me to these people, Steve. Thank you for giving me this new little family. When you wake up, I’ve got a project for you; a team portrait. I’m sure everyone will be happy to sit still for you while you sketch them out,” Bucky adds on and presses his lips to Steve’s temple; a million infinitesimal points of pressure against his lips, a reaffirmation of the reality that _Steve is home._

“I’ve been thinking about getting a place up in the mountains,” Bucky starts softly.

“It’d be small, with just a loft upstairs for the bed and closet, and a nice big skylight on the roof so we could see the stars at night. Downstairs, there’d be the kitchen and bathroom, of course, and a washer and dryer, but they’d be moderately small and close to the front of the house, because the back is gonna be where the living room and your studio will go. Nice big windows so you get the best light. I’ll build you a nice shelving unit for your different kinds of art supplies. There’ll be bookshelves in the living room, floor to ceiling, and we could be happy,” Bucky smiles briefly into the flesh of Steve’s shoulder. He can imagine it now, their cabin up in the woods, far away enough for them to see millions of stars at night, but close enough to provide help if they’re called upon because Steve could never fully disappear into the ethers and just leave the world behind.

But then Bucky’s rambling thoughts catch up to him, and he thinks more about his ideal little cabin. One bed, in a loft, with one closet. Because _of course_ him and Steve would live together; they’ve been living in each other’s pockets for the better parts of the past century and he can’t imagine not having Steve a room or two away. But this…feeling in his chest when Bucky thinks about sharing a _home_ with Steve, it’s foreign, but not foreign. It’s warm and eternally blooming, growing bigger and brighter the more he thinks about it, and it’s also frightening, like standing on the edge of an abyss with a blindfold on, but altogether it’s _exhilarating_.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to look at Steve, to _really_ look at Steve, and everything, every laugh and touch and late night, every hour spent holding on, every blanket fort, every apology, every tear, and every mile they’ve spent fighting their way back to each other, _everything,_ all of it, makes sense. The realization is blissful because nothing else has ever felt more right.

Bucky is _in love_ with Steve.

It’s so simple, such a wonderful truth. He loves Steve. It is the simple answer to every complicated question. Bucky lets out a startled laugh and watches his breath dance through Steve’s hair. He leans down close to Steve’s ear, lets his nose brush against his shaggy hair, and whispers the singular truth of his soul.

“I love you.”

Steve probably can’t hear him, but that’s okay, because Bucky’s not even sure if he wants to tell him when he’s awake. And it’s not even that he’s afraid of Steve shunning him for it, because they’ve always been open-minded people and Steve’s M.O. is _literally_ fighting against injustice. What Bucky is afraid of is Steve not feeling the same way _but giving it a shot_ out of obligation, or worse, _pity._ Because Bucky would rather live a hundred thousand lifetimes loving Steve Rogers in the quiet corners of his mind than _risk_ damaging their friendship in any way. Bucky _knows_ Steve, knows that even if it all fell through, if it didn’t work on one or both ends, Steve would try _so hard_ to remain friends with him, would try to pretend that it didn’t affect the way they see each other in any way. Bucky would let him; for a while, he’d smile and pretend everything was okay between them even though he _knows_ they’d never make a blanket fort or play footsie or fall asleep tangled in each other again. They would be friends, but they would never be the same; there’s no possible way to backpedal from something like that. And no matter how much they pretend to move on from it, it’ll always linger in the back of their minds. Steve would unconsciously question every touch, every smile, every _moment_ between them to mean something more to Bucky and then feel _guilty_ for not being able to return the sentiment. Bucky would feel guilty for putting Steve in such an impossible position. And eventually, one of them would just walk away out of guilt and _duty_ , because they love each other and wouldn’t be able to see the other one in discomfort or pain.

Bucky can let his mind run around in circles over all of the bad scenarios that could come of him telling Steve he loves him, telling Steve he’s _in love_ with him. But instead, in the hours before dawn inevitably breaks over Manhattan, Bucky strokes Steve’s hair and occasionally whispers words of affection into his ear. Just before five am though, Steve starts to stir. It’s slight, just the quickening of his heartbeat, and Bucky’s pretty sure Steve is wide awake, but Steve doesn’t know where he is, so he’s probably trying to not alert his captors. Bucky’s heart gives a few painful thuds at that, but he pushes that aside.

“Steve?” he asks softly and immediately, Steve’s eyebrows twitch. It takes a few more moments; Steve’s heartbeat picks up some more and his breathing gets deeper, and then, like the birth of a star, Steve’s eyes open.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is scratchy and small, his eyes are big and blue, and Bucky takes a breath.

_You fear-_

And fear is as human as your loving heart, but it has held you back for too long, so open your eyes and face yourself. You are softer than your rough edges and you are more beautiful than the horrors you have committed. Shed your fear and unfold yourself.

“Welcome home, Stevie,” Bucky whispers back and presses their foreheads together gently. His eyes are wide open and smiling as they stare into Steve’s.


	7. Pick Apart The Pieces of Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I can't believe it's been almost a year since I last updated, so sorry about that by the way, life just got in the way of Frenchy and I's editing. But here's this chapter, uh, I don't really know what to say besides thanks for sticking with me? Those of you who have been here since the beginning, thanks so much for sticking around even though my updates have been sporadic at best. For those who are new, WELCOME AND I LOVE YOU.

Steve doesn’t speak much when everyone comes to visit him. Bucky lingers in the background as Steve’s hugged and patted and worried over by everyone that loves him, but he takes note of the way Steve flinches when anyone moves too quickly. He also notes that Steve seems uncomfortable with the fluorescent med-bay lighting and that he’s perpetually trying to shrink into himself. Natalia brings Steve a pair of Avengers-themed pajamas and Bruce shoos everyone out so he can rest after another brief check. Bucky, of course, stays, because earlier, when he had volunteered to grab some clothes for Steve, the most heartbreaking expression of panic and fear had crossed his face and Bucky just couldn’t bring himself to leave.

After everyone has filed out of the room, Bucky reclaims his seat on Steve’s left. They sit and stare at each other for a while; Steve’s dinner growing cold on the tray table in front of him. Steve opens his mouth a few times like he wants to say something, but he closes it a second later and goes back to staring at Bucky with a little furrow in his brow.

“Eat,” Bucky says softly. The thing about Steve is that the more you push him, the harder he will resist. At his core, Steve is a gentle man (and a gentleman to boot) and he responds the best to kindness. Now that Bucky thinks about it, everything responds best to kindness. Bucky pushes the tray closer to Steve and moves to perch on the edge of his bed. Steve nods minutely and then reaches for the spoon. Bucky pours him a glass of electrolytes and watches him slowly, quietly, sip his soup.

Bucky thinks back to his time recovering; back when he was a ghost in the halls of Avengers Tower. He remembers spending days staring at the wall, trying to piece his mind back together and rectify his memories with facts. He remembers being afraid to touch Steve, remembers being afraid to look at himself in the mirror; he remembers being afraid all of the time.

“Did Bruce tell you about your bones?” Bucky asks when Steve is halfway done with his soup. Steve looks at him intensely and nods slowly.

“Do you want a sedative?” Bucky treads carefully here, because he remembers the first time Tony tried to remove his arm and how disastrous it was. Steve pauses for a minute and his eyes jump around the room before settling on a point just above Bucky’s head. He purses his lips and a furrow appears between his brows.

“I- I don’t want...to be asleep,” Steve croaks out quietly. Bucky pushes the cup of electrolytes towards him and murmurs back that he’ll talk to Bruce.

“How long?” Steve croaks out slowly a few minutes later.

“Almost six months,” Bucky whispers back, guilt weighing him down until his forehead comes to rest near Steve’s thigh. He watches Steve nod slowly and kind of go blank, staring at the wall.

“Can I give you something?” Bucky asks a while later; an idea forming. Steve doesn’t really respond, but Bucky takes this as a yes anyway and begins typing away on a nearby StarkPad for JARVIS to have something delivered to the room. They stare at each other during the interim and Bucky tries to memorize Steve’s features, despite knowing that he could stare at Steve every day for the rest of his life and still find new freckles, new creases, new expressions of joyful sorrow in every inch of his best friend’s face.

Around Steve’s birthday, Bucky had received a package. At first he thought it was some sort of sick joke, but then he opened it and realized he had bought it and set the delivery date for just before Steve’s birthday as a surprise. It wasn’t anything big or wildly expensive.

Bucky spent three days in their apartment mourning the loss of his best friend and feeling helpless before he wrapped up the present and sat it on Steve’s bed. It has since been moved several times, sometimes sitting on the windowsill in their living room, sometimes their kitchen counter, it even spent a couple days in the common room on top of the fridge.

Natalia strides in and Bucky sees the way her shoulders have relaxed, her eyes have softened, and every deadly thing about her is now sleepy and content. She’s holding a medium sized box, painstakingly wrapped in newspaper, with a small, red-white-and-blue bow on top. Steve’s still staring off into space, but his eyebrows twitch a little bit, which probably means he registers Natalia’s entrance.

“Thanks, Nat,” Bucky reaches out to get the box, but is cut off by Steve’s terrified cry.

When he looks over, Steve is curled into himself, trying to protect his head, and crying like he’s being murdered. Bucky shares a horrified look with Natalia before the box is tossed at the foot of Steve’s bed and Natalia is on the phone speaking in hushed rapid-fire. Bucky tosses an absent-minded wave of his hand at her and approaches Steve the way he must: like one approaching a wild, frightened animal.

“Steve?” Bucky leans down so his eyes are below Steve’s eye level and opens his hands in the universal gesture of ‘I come in peace’.

“It’s 2018. You’re in Avengers Tower in the med-bay. Your name is Steven Grant Rogers and you’re safe,” Bucky says softly. He dares to inch closer when Steve’s scared eyes meet his and his crying becomes soft keening whines.

“Your name is Steven Grant Rogers. It’s 2018. You’re in Avengers Tower. My name is Bucky. I’m your friend,” Bucky inches even closer and offers his hand, palm up, to Steve for inspection. They stare at each other for a solid minute before Steve drops his eyes to the hand and begins to uncurl himself.

_This world is violent and messy, and is often filled with liars and manipulators, but there is sweet music here, in the pauses between heartbeats and the spaces between friends; in the small infinities suspended in nostalgia and longing._

* * *

 

Steve gets his bones reset a day later. Bucky grits his teeth and holds Steve’s hand through the whole ordeal, for himself or for Steve, he doesn’t know. His birthday gift forgotten on a table near the door.

Steve is moved back to his quarters three days after that and Bucky sags with relief at the illusion of privacy. The team gets called to Europe for a meet-and-greet for a few hours, so Bucky helps Steve settle in alone. Their fridge has been fully stocked, their bedsheets have been changed, and their blinds have been closed. Bucky sends a succinct ‘thank you’ to Tony while he makes lunch.

Steve starts a conversation with Bucky a few days later, at 2am, while they’re both curled on their sofa (which honestly might as well be a bed).

“Were you okay,” Steve asks in a tone too flat to really feel like a question. Bucky remembers this part though, so he runs with it.

“When?” He asks back, turning his head towards Steve. He’s got Steve’s legs thrown over his lap and Steve himself is pressed into the corner of their massive sectional.

“Independence Day. Fireworks.” Steve replies and Bucky can see the flash in Steve’s eyes; the one that says he’s weighing himself down with guilt.

“No,” Bucky answers truthfully. He was very much so _not_ okay during Independence Day. Steve’s lips twitch into a frown and his eyes get impossibly wider as he stares at Bucky like he’s goddamn _sorry_ for being kidnapped.

“I wasn’t here. I was looking for you in South America. I couldn’t give less of a damn about fireworks, Steve. What I _hated_ was that _you_ were missing your birthday. What I _hated_ was that I had no idea where you were, no idea if you were okay, if you were even _alive_.”

Steve just kind of _stares_ at him, long and hard, for about a minute before giving Bucky this _look._ It is by no stretch of the imagination a smile, but it is endearing and full of affection. And then Steve reaches out slowly and places his hand lightly on Bucky’s. In response, Bucky flips his hand over and entwines their fingers and settles further into the couch before turning back to the TV that is on some nature show.

It’s small, but it’s a start, and Bucky is sending wordless prayers of thanks to every deity he stopped believing in the first time he saw Steve get sick.

Bucky watches Steve attempt to fall asleep about thirteen times before exhaustion and medication overtake him and he succumbs to the tempting lullaby of his subconscious, his head resting heavily on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky dozes for a while, simply breathing in Steve’s smell and enjoying the substantial weight of Steve on his side. JARVIS (bless him) turns down the lights even further, but leaves one on that gives the room a gentle glow.  

Bucky tries to gently maneuver Steve, just a bit, so that he’s laying more comfortably pressed against Bucky’s side. Steve doesn’t stir, but he hums a little and rubs his face against Bucky’s trapezius before falling still again.

Bucky is so goddamn in love with this kid.

Bucky relaxes and thinks about the cosmos. He thinks about complicated theories of space and time; imagines what it feels like to be a beam of light shooting endlessly into infinity. He reminds himself to get JARVIS to download the _Cosmos_ series; Steve would probably like Carl Sagan because _who doesn't_ . Bucky heard a theory about the universe a while ago, called the multiverse theory, and it implies that there are an infinite number of universes and worlds just like this one, albeit with some variation. Bucky likes this theory, because it means that in some parallel universe he and Steve never die for nothing, and in another one, maybe one or both of them has _extra_ limbs, and in yet another they are actually dinosaurs.

He falls asleep as the sky lightens, wrapped around his best friend, with thoughts of Steve the Velociraptor running through his mind.

_This world is violent and messy, often filled with liars and manipulators, but there is sweet music here, in the pauses between heartbeats and the spaces between friends; in the small infinities-_

* * *

Time moves on. Steve decides to take some time off, and Bucky turns down Coulson’s offer to suit up. When Steve asks him about it, Bucky shrugs and says, “I’m tired of fighting other men’s wars.”

They give each other bitter smiles and continue making lunch. Natalia wanders in and presses herself against Steve’s back, hands pressed on top of his heart. Steve leans into her and Bucky pulls out another bowl. He squeezes Steve’s arm and pats Natalia’s hair as he passes to get another cup of juice.

When they sit down at the counter, Bucky lets his right foot hang off his stool so he can knock it gently against Steve’s while Natalia tells them dirty jokes.

Steve almost chokes on his juice from trying to contain his laughter and Bucky is silently grateful for Natalia’s existence in Steve’s life. He watches her soak in Steve’s features, like she had begun to forget the tilt of his eyebrows or the slope of his nose, and Bucky soaks _her_ in because he had spiraled so deeply into his fear and grief and thirst for vengeance that he forgot how deeply she loved the people close to her. He sees it now in the way she curls her body towards Steve, in the way she smiles softly every time Steve looks her directly in the eyes, and especially in the way she faces her back to the windows, which is _huge_ , because she trusts him and Steve to watch her six.

Bucky takes their empty bowls to the kitchen to dump them in the dishwasher and when he returns, he kind of leans against the counter and watches Natalia and Steve interact. It’s an amazing thing, watching individual human evolution over the years. For a long time Steve was this roiling ball of righteous wrath, and then he was a man dissatisfied by reality, and then he was a symbol, and then he was a soldier, and then he was lost.

Now Steve is shedding those ill-fitting identities like old clothes and becoming someone who is more than the sum of his parts. Bucky is entranced.  

_This world is violent and messy, often filled with liars and manipulators, but there is sweet music here, in the pauses between heartbeats and the spaces between friends-_

* * *

Clint visits as often as he can — between ops and debriefings it is not uncommon to find him sprawled on a couch near Steve. He teaches them sign language and Bucky is a little bit in love with it. He personally likes the expressive nature of the signs, but Steve’s hands are so _fluid_ when they move that it’s like watching the Russian ballet.

Bucky watches Steve reclaim himself a little more everyday.

It starts with Clint’s language lessons. Steve had been all but mute and catatonic since he got back, only speaking in short sentences or nodding ambiguously, like a stranger in a strange land trying to figure out the locals. But, at Clint’s recommendation, Steve starts talking while he signs to reinforce the movement in his mind. At first he’s just mouthing the words, but over the course of a few weeks, he’s speaking to the team again. Sometimes he’ll stop talking in the middle of a sentence while his hands keep moving, but someone (usually Bucky) will translate.

Almost in a reversal of hypothermia, Steve heats up from the extremities within.

Like most on the team, Steve had been a weapon pointed at a preordained enemy, and like most of them, his hands have too often been used to destroy. A lot of people think that the opposite of war is peace, but it’s not. The opposite of war, Bucky has realized, is _creation_.

Whenever Tony comes to hang out with Steve, he brings _supplies._ One time it was Legos and they spent the better part of the day trying to create a lego model of Manhattan. It’s still sitting on their dining room table; a piece added here and there by whomever passes by. Another time, when Natalia and Clint had been around, Tony brought a bunch of Jenga blocks and markers so that they could make a weird always-perfect-but-always-imperfect puzzle.

One of Bucky’s favorite days, however, is when Tony brings a small robot with him (that looks exactly like Dum-E) and got Steve to help him program it. He then gave it to Steve as a gift and now they sort of have a robot-pet-thing. Steve pets it sometimes and calls it Greg.

Greg is mostly used for bringing the remote closer or delivering sandwiches.

Some days are shitty. Some days Steve won’t get out of bed for anything except the bathroom, and that’s _okay,_ so Bucky brings him food even though he probably won’t eat it and reads out in the living room while he listens to Steve occasionally shift or cough. Some days Bucky needs to step back and evaluate himself and his role here, so he’ll leave early in the mornings and go for long walks around the city until he feels centered in who he is again. Some days Steve will get triggered down in the common room or by something on tv or it’ll come out of seemingly nowhere, but they’ve all been there, so whoever is with him will talk Steve down or they’ll rub his back or scratch his head the way he loves until Steve comes back. Some days it’s like everything that could possibly go wrong, goes _wrong._ Some days no one can help Steve except _Steve,_ but that’s what love _is_ sometimes; it’s letting someone exist in the solemn, private corners of their minds. 

But some days are _glorious._ Some days Steve will laugh at jokes and engage in conversations and Bucky can let himself pretend for a while that they’re all just a group of weirdos hanging out. Some days it’s almost like Bucky is waking up from a fever dream and Steve is there, making french toast and smiling into the early morning light. Some days they walk in Central Park and get ice cream, sticky sweetness running down their chins and boyish grins overtaking their faces. Some days they go to the MOMA or the Museum of Natural Science and they are young men again, fascinated with culture and hungry for knowledge.

Some days the sun shines brighter.

Steve teaches them all how to be people by _learning_ himself. A chemical reaction jumping from one atom to another until the entire compound is changed. Bucky notices the stress in his friends slowly fall away as they learn to enjoy existence outside of war. He notices the stress in _himself_ fall away as he chooses more and more frequently to let go of his sense of duty and instead embrace his duty to himself. Mulan was right all along. So was Wilson.

Thor shares his life. He tells them tales of warriors who never made it into songs but were key players to the battle. He walks them through the universe in the virtual reality simulator in the gym; the team sitting on the floor like children around a campfire, drawn to Thor’s soothing voice and fantastical descriptions of eternity, like moths to a flame. Carl Sagan as a centuries-old alien prince.

Bruce shares his mind. He shows them the beauty of science and math and humanity; shows them that there is loveliness in chaos. He poetically discusses how improbable the whole concept of humanity _is,_ how ridiculous it is that humans have survived this long, but he also marvels at the sheer _magnificence_ of what humans are capable of. Entropy as a virtue. 

Darcy shares her heart. She reassures them that they’re doing the right thing and that the reality is that they can’t always save everyone. She worries over them with familial compassion, something that a lot of them are unfamiliar with and something none of them knew they needed. There’s a petition in the works to have her raised to Sainthood.

Fall is fading faster and faster, leaves beaten until they are no longer discernible from the ground, buried in snow. Bucky tries not to think about how similar people like him are to fallen leaves.

Thanksgiving comes and goes while the team is in South America, but those remaining at the tower - Bucky, Steve, Darcy, Jane, and Clint - share a quiet evening filled with hot chocolate and comfort. Instead of watching Harry Potter like Clint recommends, they build a blanket fort in Steve and Bucky’s living room where they collapse in a pile of tangled limbs and full hearts.

In the morning, Bucky is hard pressed to find where someone begins and someone else ends. He asks Greg to start the coffee machine and presses himself back into the space between what he knows is Steve’s back and what he assumes is Darcy’s side. He lays there for a formless amount of time, content in the warmth seeping into him from all sides.

It hits Bucky in the gut when he realizes that for the first time since he came back, Steve slept through the night. The day already looks brighter, the warm bodies around him even more comforting, like a blanket clutched in a child’s hands. Bucky counts his blessings and goes boneless.  

One by one, they all wake, but nobody gets up. Even after the last person wakes up (Clint, of course), they all stay under the light canopy of their fort. Steve rolls over to face Bucky and he takes the opportunity to rub their noses together like the Maori. Steve reaches over Bucky’s hip to poke Darcy in greeting, but his arm doesn’t move afterwards. Bucky feels his neck attempting to heat up at the intimacy of this closeness, but he pushes it away by reaching behind him and tapping Darcy on the leg in his own greeting. She lightly kicks him in the shin. Rude.

Darcy gets up first, mumbling under her breath about coffee and stumbling towards the hall bathroom. As she moves, the spell breaks, the warmth of the dogpile isn’t enough anymore, and so they must crawl out from their makeshift cave and greet the day.

Jane leaves early to check on some calculations but Darcy and Clint stay for a light breakfast of coffee and fruit. After they leave, Steve disappears into his room while Bucky cleans up the kitchen and living room. Just as Bucky is about to head into his room for a shower, Steve latches onto his back like a lonely octopus.

“Morning,” Bucky leans back into Steve’s embrace. Sometimes simply _touching_ someone else is all Bucky needs, feeling the softness of skin and the double-thud of a heart, to match breaths and exist in the same way some plants do, overlapping each other, leaves curled into each other before they slowly rotate towards the sun.

Instead of responding vocally, Steve presses the tip of his nose into Bucky’s carotid artery before loosening his hold and letting go. Bucky turns around and cups one hand gently around the side of Steve’s neck, he smiles at his best friend, and then he goes to take a shower. Right before he passes through the threshold of his bedroom, he pauses and looks back, and there Steve is, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands, staring out the large windows in their living room, a barely there smile on his face.

_This world is violent and messy, often filled with liars and manipulators, but there is sweet music here, in the pauses between heartbeats-_

* * *

Christmas is a scattered affair.

Tony and Pepper squirrel away to their vacation home in London ( _“Tony spent most of his Christmases with his ‘Aunt Peggy’, especially after Howard started spending more and more time looking for Steve,” Pepper tells Bucky with a sad smile on her face)._

Wilson goes home (“ _You and Cap are more than welcome to come, okay? Pop by in the middle of Christmas dinner, even. My mom loves you guys and my nieces miss your arm,” Wilson pats Bucky on the back and hugs Steve before he leaves)._

Jane and Thor go to Asgard to celebrate in the Realm Eternal. ( _“We will return before your New Year, my friends. I bid you well, Captain, Sergeant,” Thor hands Bucky a wrapped box that he pulls out of literally nowhere, and then he takes Jane’s hand and heads for the roof)._

Bruce goes to India, to celebrate _Pancha Ganapati,_ because he promised some kids he would ( _“Take care, James. Merry Christmas.”)._

Clint and Natalia go on a Mediterranean cruise ( _“You guys should go away too. New York during Christmas can be kind of a nightmare,” Clint says with a shrug. “I’ll bring you something from a country you’ve never been to,” Natalia says with a kiss to his cheek)._

Darcy has family she could visit, but she chooses to treat herself to Italy instead (“ _I love my family, but I think it’s a good thing for people to just spend some time with themselves, you know? I’ll light a candle for you,” she tells Bucky one quiet morning in the common kitchen, mugs of coffee in their hands, eyes on the snow drifting by)._

In the end it’s only Bucky and Steve.

“You wanna go somewhere?” Bucky asks him in the middle of _Cosmos._ Steve looks at him for a minute before shaking his head ‘no’. Bucky nods, sinks further into the couch, and turns back to the dulcet tones of Carl Sagan.

There’s no tree, no lights or ornaments, but there’s a pile of presents from their friends sitting on their dining room table (the Lego model of Manhattan was moved to the common room, completed, and Bucky caught Tony placing little Lego people here and there).

The day before Christmas Eve, Bucky makes as much food as he can. Steve has gained most of the weight back, but there is still a fragility in his muscles and a skittishness in his movement, so the weight becomes fat that gets burned off by his metabolism instead of being converted to muscle that will stick — no one is asking Steve to hit the gym any time soon.

Steve _had_ offered to help but Bucky waved him off and instead requested Steve keep him plied with wine and chocolate. Happy to be needed, Steve has positioned himself at the barstool on the opposite side of the calendar with a couple bottles of wine and a bowl of assorted chocolates.

Bucky asks JARVIS to play Electro Swing while he chops vegetables and seasons meat. Whenever a remix of a pop song comes on, Bucky looks at Steve with big eyes and says, completely deadpan, “Oh My God, Steve, YAS, this is my _jam,_ ” and halfheartedly Charlestons to the groove. Steve laughs, head thrown back and eyes scrunching shut, every time.

He’s got a honey ham and some mac and cheese in the oven, a pot of soup on the stove, some cookie dough cooling in the fridge, and a glass of wine in his hand. Ella Fitzgerald croons over a simple beat, her voice filling the space, so Bucky walks around to Steve and holds out his hand.

“Still don’t know how to dance, Buck,” Steve says with a long-suffering eye roll. There had been lessons, way back when, but none of them stuck. Bucky doesn’t respond, he just raises his eyebrows and smiles until Steve lets out a huff and takes his hand. They sway gently to Ella; Bucky has one hand on Steve’s waist and the other clasped with his at shoulder height. The next song feels familiar, trumpets grooving to a rhythm that pulses through Bucky’s bones. His legs start moving, picking up pace and moving Steve’s along with them. Bucky’s already smiling, laughter bubbling in his chest like light champagne, as he moves Steve in cheerful circles in the space between the living room and the kitchen. Steve is so busy trying not to laugh at Bucky’s antics that it causes him to move more fluidly. He’s not overthinking right now; he’s purely reacting to Bucky, biting his lip like a seductress by laughing so hard his eyes squeeze shut. Making Steve laugh is one of Bucky’s favorite things —  right up there with poetry and thai tea.

“Would you look at that, Steve Rogers is _dancing,_ ” Bucky pokes one finger at Steve’s flank with the sole intention of making Steve giggle.

“Fuck off, Barnes,” Steve grumbles.

“Does America know about that potty mouth of yours?”

“There’s a video of me cursing out a homophobe.”

Bucky bursts out laughing, head thrown back and hands on his abdomen, little tears of joy gathering at the corners of his eyes. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself as an old man, face creased with wrinkles and crinkles of happiness and time. He hopes that he will get to see Steve’s face form folds of joy rather than stress.

“I need it,” Bucky gasps out and he hears Steve’s exasperated sigh.

“It’s on Youtube,” Steve says, but there’s a smile in his voice and Bucky figures that they’ll be alright.

Bucky makes as many cookies as he possibly can on Christmas Eve. He makes Steve frost the sugar cookies; shows him images on Google of different designs people have done. Unsurprisingly, Steve makes all of the cookies Avengers-themed. Santa hats in red and gold or purple and black. Spider and arrow ornaments on the Christmas trees. He dresses the people shaped cookies as their friends. Metal arms and ugly sweaters, red hair and scarves, sleeveless vests and a dog. Bucky snags the cookies shaped like stars and colors them in red-white-blue.

When they’re done licking the icing off their fingers, they take the mountain of cookies into the living room, along with some large glasses of milk, and settle in to finish watching _Cosmos._  

Steve falls asleep first, long after the cookies are gone, half on top of Bucky with his jaw slack and his breathing deep. Bucky is too comfortable right now, and it’s technically Christmas, so instead of waking Steve up and urging him to go to bed, he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and leans back so that Steve is settled between the back of the couch and Bucky’s body. There’s a couple of presents hidden under his bed for Steve, small simple things, and he’ll whip those out tomorrow after they open the presents from their friends. Bucky relaxes all of his muscles, goes completely lax curled around his best friend, and thinks about light. Steve’s face is lit with the ambient light of the city outside, shadows sweep across his face, giving it a peculiar softness that is at the same time dangerous.

Bucky is so gone on him.

He wants to brush his lips across Steve’s eyebrow and then compare the texture to the baby hairs at the base of Steve’s neck. He wants to trace the contours of Steve’s face with his fingertips while he lays butterfly kisses at the base of his throat. Oh god, he _wants._ He wants to lick inside Steve’s mouth, wonders if it tastes like sugar and milk or something else; wants to roll the clothes off of his muscles and nibble on the skin underneath; he wants wants _wants_ . God, save him because Bucky wants to take him apart and _be taken apart_ . He wants to fall to pieces wrapped around Steve and he wants to hold his hand and kiss him in public. He wants the guest room to _be_ a guest room.

But now is not the time, not when Steve is still scraped raw from HYDRA’s fuckery, not when Bucky is still a little raw from his desperation. And Bucky is _scared,_ scared about what it could mean if it was all one-sided, scared about what it could mean if it _wasn’t_ one-sided. He wants to go for it, wants to put the idea out there that his lips and Steve’s lips could press together, but he doesn’t want to take advantage, and he doesn’t want his love to be shadowed by the backdrop of desperation. At the same time however, he can’t keep it to himself forever. Once upon a time he would’ve kept his trap shut and taken his secret to the grave, but times are different, and he’s different, and even if it’s unrequited, even if Bucky walks away without ever knowing the feel of Steve’s lips on his own, at least he _tried._ He needs Steve to know that down to his very bones, Bucky has always, and will always, be there for him.

For now though, in the early hours before Christmas morning coffee and leftovers from their Christmas Eve feast, Bucky takes Steve in. He memorizes the shadow-play of his eyelashes and the slight curve of his nose, the bow of his lips and the jut of his jaw. He takes it all in, soaks it into his cells, and then he closes his eyes and matches breaths until he, too, is asleep.

A few hours later, Bucky wakes up because _someone_ is poking his cheek. Before he opens his eyes though, he feels the solid weight of Steve on his chest and between his legs. He soaks up the heat radiating around him like a cat in the sun and he breathes deep; the lingering scent of sugar in the air.

“I know you’re awake, Barnes.” Poke.

“So?” 

“It’s _Christmas_.” Poke. Poke.

“You’re very astute this morning.”

“Are you always this much of an asshole?” Poooooke.

“Only on alternate Wednesdays.” Pause.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“ _So?”_

“C’mon, Buck, it’s _Christmas,_ where’s your holiday cheer?” and the poking starts up again.

“At the bottom of my cup of coffee,” Bucky cracks one eye open in time to see Steve pout before his eyes get that dangerous glint that means he’s plotting something. Before he realizes it, Steve’s blowing raspberries into his chest, and he’s moving upwards towards Bucky’s face.

Now there is a part of Bucky that would greatly like to move his head and capture those lips with his own, and there’s another part that is perfectly content to lay back and let Steve wear himself out, and there is yet another part that would like to flail off the couch in order to hide his deepening blush.

God-fucking-dammit.

Bucky flails halfheartedly and settles back into the couch, eyes closed.

“But Buckyyyy... _presents_ ,” Steve flops onto Bucky’s chest gracelessly with a whine. It’s the most playful Bucky’s seen him in _months -_ maybe years - and he’s not really ready to let this Steve go. He wants to hold on to this carefree man-child until the last possible second.  

“Alright, alright, presents. But first,” and Bucky holds his metal finger in front of Steve’s face, “coffee.”

Steve licks said finger before he hops up to fetch the presents from their dining table. Bucky’s brain pretty much short circuits because _what._ Before he can really start to overthink things, a small mountain of presents is falling into his lap and when he looks up, Steve is holding out a large cup of coffee.

“Ugh, you’re perfect,” slips out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop it and he internally screams because he knows he sounds like the smitten fool he is. But Steve gets this soft look on his face, like that was the last possible thing he expected to come out of Bucky’s mouth, but like it’s also the best possible thing, and he smiles that sunshine smile that Bucky hasn’t seen in the longest time.

“Come on, you first, I still gotta wake up,” Bucky sets the presents out so that they’re between him and Steve on the couch, each of them leaning against the arms.

Steve nods and starts sorting through the pile, tossing Bucky’s presents towards his feet and stacking his own neatly in front of his crossed legs. Before long, he’s done, and Bucky notices that Steve’s stack is the slightest bit bigger. He smiles and thinks about the past. Sometimes he and Steve would wind up with more money at the end of the month than usual, and _somehow_ one of them would end up with a new pair of socks or something.

“Pepper,” Steve holds up a small set of three packages, all tied together with string and wrapped in the Pride flag. Steve takes the time to unravel the string and peel the tape away from the wrapping paper. Bucky thinks of echoes of the future that were born in the past; of blood shed and love spreading its wings.

Steve chokes on a laugh when he sees his first present and turns it around for Bucky’s eyes. It’s a simple picture frame, dark redwood with the names of the people on their team scrawled in gold around the border in each person’s handwriting. The picture in the frame is recent, and horrible. It’s time stamped a few weeks after Steve was released from the med-bay; they’re all in the kitchen waiting for dinner to be finished, most of them lined up at the bar. They’re all making horrified and disgusted faces at one smug looking Tony Stark, who is standing proudly by the blender (which retains faint traces of something vaguely pink but also vaguely _brown)._ Bucky can see the barely contained mirth on their faces, on the edges of their disgust and exasperation. It’s Steve and Natalia though that are Bucky’s favorite part of the whole thing. Steve’s eyes are huge, like he wants to spit his mouthful out all over Stark, but he’s stopping himself because Sarah Rogers raised him better than that. Natalia is looking at Steve with this twist on her lips, like she’s trying _so hard_ to not laugh outright in Steve’s face.

Bucky smiles sleepily at Steve’s happiness and takes another sip of his coffee. The next present is slightly smaller and less flat, but softer and more squishy. It’s something decidedly _colorful,_ but they both gasp quietly and Bucky feels his eyes misting a little bit. A quilt, with not only the team’s individual symbols, but with subversive little _quotes_ from all of them, hand embroidered in elegant cursive. _Natalia_ , Bucky thinks. She always did have idle hands. Steve drapes the quilt gently over the back of the couch and moves onto his last present wordlessly. As soon as Steve opens it, it’s clear that Pepper Potts is A) full of class and B) made of _swagger,_ because it’s an understated matte black watch with numbers plated in _gold_ and _diamonds_ surrounding the face. A small note is pinned to the inside of the top of the box, and Steve reads out loud, _“And let today embrace the past with_ _remembrance and the future with longing. Merry Christmas. Pepper."_ (1)

Steve smiles at the watch before closing the box gently and laying it on the coffee table. He leans back and gestures grandly to Bucky’s pile with a smile, and how is Bucky supposed to resist that? Hopeless, is what he is, but it is lovely all the same.

“Hmmm…this one looks safe,” Bucky carefully picks out a medium sized box wrapped in newspaper and twine. Darcy, maybe, or Bruce; they’re hipsters like that.

Unlike Steve, Bucky doesn’t have the patience to unwrap this carefully, so he casually reads a few headlines out while he tears the paper apart. He’s rewarded before he even gets to his gift; Steve is losing his shit. He’s positively _cackling_ and Bucky is filled to bursting with warmth and happiness that _this_ is the life he gets to live now, that through all the _shit_ and _lies_ and _killing_ he still gets this, his best friend on Christmas morning laughing his ass off because Bucky said, completely deadpan, “Alien Bible Found! They Worship Oprah!”

Bucky’s present - yarn and comically large needles - is wonderful and he makes a mental note to knit Darcy something soft and lovely as a _thank you_ . However, the yarn and needles lay all but forgotten near Bucky feet while he absorbs the _wonder_ of Steve’s face as it contorts into expressions of glee, lit up by a winter sun.

_This world is violent and messy, often filled with liars and manipulators, but there is sweet music here-_

* * *

 They spend New Year's upstate in one of the Stark family homes. They bring Greg with them (Steve feels bad about leaving him alone) and Tony promptly sticks a bowtie on his chassis. He is slowly covered in magnets over the course of the weekend. New Years Eve Day is spent lounging outside in large hammocks with space heaters nearby and poking fun at Clint when he tries and fails to climb a tree. In the evening, they all pitch in for dinner and then they move to the roof top deck to watch the sky. Small, local fireworks light up the sky in technicolor, but they’re far away enough that the explosions sound more like bass drums experimenting with rhythms. Thor brings Asgardian mead that makes Natalia go pale and Tony whimper. Bucky can’t wait to try it and is pleasantly surprised when Steve asks for a shot too. They toast and laugh when they’re both wheezing and crying a little as a result.

“Weak,” Bucky croaks at Steve.

“Bite me,” Steve groans back.

“Steven!” Bucky squeals in a southern accent, “not in front of the children!”

Steve flips him off with a pure, sunshine grin, and Bucky feels like air.

Sometimes recovery drags its feet, stops to smell the flowers and occasionally breaks down, but other times, recovery sprints ahead, eager to catch the wind and outlast the sunset.

They all pair off the closer it gets to midnight. Tony and Pepper lean against the balcony; an intimate squabble bubbling in the space between them. Clint and Natasha are standing over in a corner, pointing out constellations to each other. Thor and Jane are sitting in deck chairs, talking about something that has _nothing_ to do with science. Darcy, Bruce, and Wilson stand in a trio near where Bucky and Steve have their arms wrapped around each other (presumably because of the alien hooch). When the countdown reaches midnight in New York City, when the big fireworks go off and Bucky swears he can hear half the country cheer, Steve turns to him and presses his lips against the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

And time stands still.

Someone has just pressed a kiss to Bucky’s other cheek, but he disregards it in favor of pulling Steve closer. He looks beautiful in the moonlight, but the light from the fireworks makes him look ethereal. Bucky feels like a dust mote floating on infinity, he’s staring at the play of light on Steve’s cheekbones, trying to read the emotions in Steve’s eyes, but he keeps getting distracted by the wet fullness of his lips. God, Bucky wants to kiss him so bad he feels like he might explode.

He almost can’t help himself when he leans in and presses his lips lightly against Steve’s. It’s over faster than it starts - the barest hint of pressure between them - and Bucky feels like he’s on fire. He swears every single cell in his body does a backflip at the contact and then strains closer to Steve, helpless, lovestruck particles caught in his magnetic field. They stare at each other, wide-eyed during the kiss and continue to stare after they part.

Bucky could say something. He could lay it all out on the table. It wouldn’t feel like taking advantage of Steve’s vulnerability. And it’s _not._ He’s just so tired of pretending he’s not in love; he’s tired of waiting for the ‘right moment’, because there is never a ‘right moment’.

He’s getting ahead of himself. The moment is over anyway, and now they’re standing flush against each other under a crackling sky, wide-eyed, parted lips.

Bucky should stop worrying and overanalyzing and simply _be._

“Happy New Year, Stevie,” Bucky whispers with a gentle smile. He pulls Steve back in for a small hug before letting go entirely.

“Buck-” Steve starts but is cut off by Tony’s exuberant cry of “and now for the grand finale!” Bucky looks up just in time to see several rockets whistling towards the sky. He braces himself for the explosion; tenses all of his muscles in preparation for the sound that rips open his skin and spills war into his blood. His eyes are frozen on the sky, waiting, fearing, and he feels Steve tense up beside him. Their hands find each other and grip tight, so tight it starts to _hurt_ , but Bucky can’t let go, he _can’t,_ because he knows he might not even have an episode, but he’s _terrified_ regardless. When the rockets explode, colors bursting anew across the sky, there is no resounding _BOOM!_ The shadows do not turn into enemies or victims, their friends do not turn into faceless people telling him to obey or open his mouth for a guard, and Steve’s hand remains very real in Bucky’s own.

“Wha-” Bucky tries to croak around the lump in his throat, eyes still fixed on the sky.

“Would you believe me if I said magic?” Tony laughs.

“It’s a less confusing answer than the manipulation of sound waves through wormholes in the quantum world,” Jane sighs.

“Gift from the Realm Eternal,” Tony adds helpfully.

Bucky finally takes his eyes off the lovely display of team colors and smiley faces in the sky to look at Steve. He can still feel the pressure of Steve’s soft lips on his own and he wants _more._

There are no interruptions now; all of their friends have resumed conversation and drinking. They’re still holding hands, still standing impossibly close to each other, still staring at each other like they’re going to go blind tomorrow. 

“You kissed me,” Steve says, face blank and voice unreadable.

“I did,” Bucky says instead of _you kissed me first,_ or _I want to kiss you again._

Steve doesn’t say anything for a while, but he doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand or move away either, so Bucky tries to keep his breathing even and deep. His eyes flicker to the sky, to their friends smiling around them, and then to Steve’s lips before landing on his baby blues. Then Steve smiles and it’s this gentle, broken thing, full of affection and nostalgia.

“Buck-” Steve starts out softly and for a brief moment Bucky think _this is it, whatever_ **_it_ ** _is._ Fear and hope curl like smoke in his chest and Bucky briefly flashes back to springtime at Coney Island a lifetime ago; two young men laughing freely while they stand in line for another ride.

And then someone screams.

Bucky’s head snaps to the side so fast he hears something crack. He can feel Steve’s hand tightening in his and his other hand is already positioned over the knife at his hip. He relaxes almost completely when he realizes that the person screaming is Darcy, and she looks happy, so Bucky figures murder won’t happen tonight. She’s pointing at Natalia and Clint in the corner and doing a weird hop-skip dance in her place before she charges forward and jumps on Natalia.

Bucky hears Steve gasp beside him and when he glances over, there are tears in his eyes and happiness in his mouth. So Bucky looks at Natalia, really looks at her while she smiles warmly at the lonely starfish that is Darcy Lewis. And then he sees it. A ring, glittering in the ambient light of the deck and the cool glow of the moon, fitted around her left ring finger snugly, looking for all the world like a star. It is nothing however to the look shared between Clint and Natalia. It is so tender, so raw and full of love and respect that Bucky feels like he’s intruding by simply being there.

Bucky, eyes stinging from the threat of tears and a goofy smile stretching his face, turns to look at Steve only to find that he’s actually crying and _giggling_ at the same time. It’s contagious. Bucky finds himself laughing and wiping the tears from his eyes before he drags Steve over to the happy couple so that they can have a group hug.

“Congratulations, Natasha,” Bucky says softly after he presses a kiss to her cheek, because Natalia was their shared past, a weapon, a singular identity, and Natasha is the sum of her parts and then some. She squeezes his arms and smiles at him, free and open, and then she laughs like she can’t quite believe it yet. Bucky steps back so that she can be passed around their friends and sees Steve leaning back against the railing nearby, a small smile on his face.

Steve, Bucky has noticed, smiles when he’s sad, too.

“What’s up, kid,” Bucky slouches against the railing next to him.

“Nothin’,” Steve shrugs.

“Dude,” Bucky nudges him in the ribs with his metal elbow.

“I forgot that people like us could have this,” Steve murmurs.

“You didn’t know?” Bucky assumed it was a well-known fact that Clint and Natasha were together.

“Of course, I knew. It’s just different. I don’t know. It’s _stable_ in the way our lives never are,” Steve shrugs again.

“If anything, people like us deserve these things _more._ It’s selfish, and yeah, Steve, everyone deserves happiness, but it should mean _more_ to people like us, because we have to fight harder for it, we have to endure more for it to mean something,” Bucky looks Steve dead in the eye to make sure he understands that no matter how they change, they deserve this; deserve _happiness and stability._  

Steve smiles softly, eyes flickering as thin clouds glide past the moon. Bucky grabs his hand and smiles too, watching their friends embrace and smile and celebrate the passing of time.

_This world is violent and messy, often filled-_

* * *

A few days later, when they’re back in the Tower, the ghost of that kiss lingers in Bucky’s mind. It fits itself in the spaces between breakfast and poetry, between trips to thrift stores and evening jogs. But it’s not only the kiss that’s replaying itself like a Vine, it’s _Steve’s reaction_ that keeps Bucky awake at night. He wanted to say something, but he hasn’t brought it up since. _Bucky_ wants him to say something, but fear curls itself around his ribcage and presses inward; every time he thinks of bringing it up, it’s like his lungs freeze. And Bucky hates it, hates that after all this time, after all of the _shit_ he and Steve have gone through, _fear_ can still grip him tight and hold him back.

Bucky simply tries to keep being the best friend that Steve deserves. They’ve developed a lovely existence between them; they can be alone together and the blanket of comfort stays with them even when they’re in different rooms. Steve seems more comfortable in his skin than ever; he engages in brunch and team movie nights, he no longer flinches at every loud noise and touch, his shoulders have relaxed enough that Bucky spares a few moments to pat himself on the back for being the same kind of support Steve selflessly offered him years ago.

However, their dynamic seems to have shifted, just the slightest bit, like returning after a vacation to find all of the furniture moved slightly to the left. Their casual touches feel more intimate, or maybe Bucky is _more_ aware of the way Steve’s fingers linger on his metal arm, or the way he will nuzzle his head into Bucky’s shoulder when they’re watching movies at two a.m., or the pressure of Steve’s leg pressed hip to knee against his while they eat breakfast.

But things get a little problematic when Steve wanders into the kitchen one morning in nothing but a pair of _booty shorts_ with _cartoon kittens_ all over them. Bucky chokes on his coffee because Steve’s rumpled bed head and confused blinking paired with the shorts is _too much,_ but also, _holy shit._ Bucky’s seen Steve half naked a lot, but the way the sunlight hits him and the way he licks his dry lips and blinks like a confused puppy shoots straight to Bucky’s dick. Even the faint scars scattered over his abdomen and arms turn him on because they are a testament to Steve’s strength and _will_ to survive, and more importantly, are _hot as hell._ Bucky’s still staring - dumbstruck by the sheer expanse of Steve’s back, the play of his shoulder blades, and the mouthwatering dimples right above his cute little ass - while Steve clumsily pours himself a cup of juice.

 _“I’m pathetically in love with you,”_ floats through Bucky’s mind while he watches Steve lean against the counter and sip his juice looking for all the world like an oversized puppy.

Steve freezes like he’s been struck by Mjolnir, and that is the exact moment that Bucky realizes three things at the exact same time; one, he said that _out loud_ , two, all of his blood has turned to ice, and three, Steve does a very impressive statue pose. _Chiaroscuro_ drifts behind Bucky’s eyelids for a split second while he and Steve stare at each other in shock. (2)

“What? Bucky- what?” Steve whispers and Bucky can understand that reaction despite the fact that it feels like a piece of his heart has turned to ash.

“Uh,” Bucky stutters out. He all but drops his coffee cup in the sink and then crosses his arms, wishing for Steve’s shield or a sniper to take him out _right fucking now_ . Whichever, he’s not picky. He should be brave; he should just come out with it, plain as day, _yes, I am in love with you._ What’s stopping him besides fear? Fear of rejection or fear of failure. In the grand scheme of things, neither are vehicles for change or growth, so Bucky will be _fearless._

“I, uh,” Bucky takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, looks Steve directly in the eyes, and says, “I love you.”

Steve stares at him, mouth parted, eyes wide, and for a second Bucky thinks he sees the beginnings of _tears._

“Sorry - that, that just slipped out. You don’t have to feel or say anything and I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you or taking advantage or anything and you know what? I’m gonna go downstairs before I say something _really_ stupid, so I’ll let you...process that and we’ll see each other later, okay?” Bucky can feel himself trembling a little, and his head is _spinning,_ and he can see that Steve is taken aback and wholly unprepared, so he turns around and _walks_ very calmly towards the elevators. He can feel Steve’s eyes following him, so when he steps onto the elevator, he turns back around and gives Steve a small smile and a wave before the doors close.

As soon as they shut, however, Bucky leans heavily on the handrails. 

“JARVIS?” 

_“Yes, Sir?”_

“Take me to Natasha.”

 _“Certainly, Sir. Ms. Romanoff is in the common room with Mr. Barton and Ms. Lewis,”_ JARVIS replies.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Bucky straightens up a bit and stares at his reflection.

_This world is-_

Complicated and elegant and confounding and beautiful; you learned this before you learned what _hurt_ meant. You are made of lovelier things than _pain_ and _fear_ , so reach out, with trembling limbs or an anxious heart, _reach out_ and-

Bucky can’t walk away like this; he _can’t_ walk away from Steve again.

“JARVIS! Take me back to Steve!” he cries.

_“Yes, sir.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons, / And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.” Kahlil Gibran. “On Time”, The Prophet. 1923. Print.  
> (2) In accordance with the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, Chiar•oscu•ro (n.): the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow


	8. Tasting The Air You're Breathing In (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! It's a bit of a short chapter because life is hectic and mental illness doesn't take days off. I'm not entirely sure when I'll start on the next chapter, or when I'll have it finished or how long it'll be or anything at all, really. But I do know that I love you guys and all of your kind comments and support really light my fire. Like I'm Calcifer and you're all Sophie and you just told me that you like my spark. Kinda feels like that.
> 
> Also: I'm not SUPER pleased with this chapter so let me know what you think about the flow of the story, the formatting, anything.

Bucky is already kind of running before the elevator doors are fully open. Steve is sitting at the bar counter, staring blankly at the assortment of pun-related magnets that Bucky has collected, but he looks up when he hears Bucky’s approach. He stops a barstool away: just enough space to make sure Steve doesn’t feel caged in or attacked, but close enough to be intimate. Bucky doesn’t mean for it to come out the way it does, but his brain is overloaded and his filter is just _gone,_ and maybe it’s fitting that an impromptu confession of love be followed by a slightly less impromptu monologue about love.

“Steve,” Bucky starts. He chews on his lips for a moment while he catalogues the surprise on Steve’s face.

“Stop me now if you don’t want to hear it, but there are some things that need to be said,” Bucky waits for a few seconds that feel like they stretch into a lifetime, but Steve doesn’t do anything other than stare at him, so he takes that as permission to keep going.

“You look like a clumsy, overgrown puppy in the mornings. Like you’re still not used to this version of yourself,” Bucky says.

“You run like a child: your paths aren’t logical or linear or tactical, you run through trees and jump over logs and take time to _actually stop and smell flowers_. You favor your left hand when you cook or eat but you do almost everything else with your right. You unironically love wearing team merchandise and you always look surprised when you see one of them wearing yours. You love antique and thrift shops because it reminds you of the past, but they make you melancholy if you’re there too long. You smile when you’re sad. You smell like a long night of dancing after a workout. You doodle spaceships and aliens when you’re on long phone calls. You’re a selfless idiot without a sense of self-preservation and you have a martyr complex as wide as the day is long. And I am stupidly, hopelessly, happily, nervously in love with you,” Bucky says softly, adoration clear in his gaze as he watches Steve’s breathing pick up slightly.

“If there’s a chance, if you’re open to the idea,” Bucky can’t watch Steve while he says this part, so he ducks his head and focuses on the flyaway hairs that fall in front of his face, “I’d like it if we gave this -  _us_ \- a shot,” Bucky glances back up, “If not, okay, we’re still best friends. Nothing has to change between us. I swear on my _Ma,_ Stevie, no matter what, we’re _solid_.”

And there it is, Bucky’s inner heart laid bare before one of the only people who has ever had a right to its secrets. He’s nervous, feels like he might throw up or throw himself out the window, but he’s also _relieved_ to finally give voice to the love that exists in the smallest atoms of his body. They stare at each other in soft silence, both men absorbing the depth of what is happening here. Bucky traces constellations between Steve’s freckles and moles, and he is so grateful that even though the serum changed so much, those little imperfections remained.

Bucky is so wrapped up in his thoughts of pressing butterfly kisses to Steve’s neck that when Steve gets up, he prepares for a punch or for Steve to just leave or _something._ But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he moves _towards_ Bucky and slowly lifts his arms for an obvious hug, and Bucky Barnes is helpless in the face of affection. Steve’s got his arms around Bucky’s neck and Bucky’s got his arms around Steve’s tiny waist and the _second_ their chests press together, Bucky lights up with _fireworks._ He can feel their hearts beating against each other like they’re trying to jump out of their chests and dance in the middle. He can feel Steve’s minute tremors when he presses his head against Bucky’s.

“I’m terrified that maybe this is all a fever dream and you’ll be ripped away when I wake up, but...but I _know_ that...that you’re the realest thing I’ve ever touched,” Steve whispers into the side of Bucky’s neck.

All either of them do for a solid minute is hold each other and breathe in each other’s shampoo.

Bucky is the one who pulls back, as much as it pains him, but it’s only far enough to press their foreheads together; just far enough for Bucky to see the green and gold flakes in Steve’s eyes, right next to the pupil.

“Steve,” he breathes out, hesitant and nervous because he _hopes_ he knows what Steve was saying, but he _fears_ that his mind is reading too deeply into things.

“Yes,” Steve breathes into the space between them.

“Yeah?” A smile begins to bloom, fresh and sweet, across Bucky’s lips. Before it can grow into a full blown grin, Steve leans forward and presses their smiles together.

It is the best kiss of Bucky’s life.

His upper lip is between both of Steve's, but that also means Steve’s lower lip is between both of his and he can _just_ feel the slight crease that separates Steve’s outer lip and his inner lip. Every point of pressure between them becomes a point of pleasure and the warm tenderness of Steve's lips sinks down into Bucky’s very bones. It is sweet and innocent and nothing Bucky could ever imagine but everything he could’ve ever hoped for. When they part it is only to shift and press together again; electric pleasure crashing against all of Bucky’s nerves at once. He spares a moment to be self-satisfied when he feels Steve exhale a breathy moan into his mouth. He doesn't push for more just yet, doesn't do anything besides keep his lips pressed gently against Steve’s, because they’ve got _time,_ and Bucky loves the purity of this simple kiss.

But Steve - Steve’s always been a wildcard, regardless of the year or societal views, which is why Bucky loves him so goddamn much, because Steve challenges him to be his true self. It's also why Bucky is completely defenseless and bowled over when Steve presses against him harder, jerking his hips into Bucky's and then moaning hot and loud and _filthy._ Bucky is suddenly, viscerally reminded of all the _no-good-very-bad-things_ he wants to do to Steve. The moan vibrates through Bucky’s head before settling at the base of his spine, and before he's entirely aware of it, his hands are gripping Steve's waist tight enough to bruise and his hair is being tangled between artist’s fingers. All at once the kiss is hot and heavy, the air between them is supercharged with electricity, and Bucky’s flesh-hand happily wanders down the sensual curve of Steve’s back to rest just above the plush curve of his ass. He presses his fingers into the dimples there and then strokes lightly along the edge of Steve's shorts. Steve gives a full body shudder in response and presses into him _harder_ and Bucky forces himself to pull back.

“Steve,” he croaks out, forehead pressed to Steve’s, gentle affection in his fingertips.

“Please, Buck,” Steve whispers back, pupils blown wide and hands moving to cradle Bucky’s jaw.

“Please,” he says again when he sees the flicker of apprehension in Bucky's eyes.

Bucky is helpless. He doesn't know how to say no to this. He doesn't _want_ to.

There are two abandoned cups in the sink, the sun is gently filtering in through their light curtains, and their apartment is quiet save for the gentle hum of the A/C and the fridge. Two men stand centimeters apart, hearts on their sleeves.

Bucky moves first, slowly, carefully, like Steve could float away into smoke at any second. When he pulls back, it’s just enough to look Steve in the face, and instead of pressing their lips together like he _desperately_ wants to, he stares like it is both the first and last time he’s seeing him. He takes in the freckles and beauty spots dotted like scattered stars across Steve’s skin; takes in the gentle slope of his nose and the way his eyes and mouth align to create a symmetry that transcends beauty. He is one of the most beautiful men Bucky has ever had the privilege to know whether the year is 1930 or 2016. Bucky inches his face closer so that when he says, _I love you_ , he hopes that Steve feels it down to the roots of his soul. Steve responds by closing the gap that a century of silence has eroded between them; he fills the echoing canyons of loneliness with soft affection and heady warmth.

They kiss for a while, learning the shape of each other’s mouth, but when Bucky licks teasingly at Steve’s bottom lip, and he _whimpers_ , Bucky has no choice. He plunders, he takes, and he _gives_ absolutely everything he’s got. Bucky empties his cup, pours his heart and soul into Steve and hopes beyond hope that he understands the deep _fierceness_ with which Bucky loves him. He’s got his hands cradling Steve’s face, and Steve’s got his arms wrapped around Bucky’s waist, and nothing has ever felt so _right._ So they make out for a while, and somewhere between a breathless chuckle and another _I love you_ , they’ve somehow ended up pressed against the counter, and Bucky knows that it’s not the most comfortable position, but he can’t bring himself to stop long enough to move.There is granite pressed against the small of his back, but there is skin pressed against his front and Bucky feels consumed with want and desire. When they pull away, maybe five or fifty minutes later, their lips are spit-slick and redder than cherries during harvest, their hair is a wild mess, and their smiles are larger than life. They laugh, _giggle_ really, like a couple of schoolboys who just saw a _boob_ for the first time, because it’s a little ridiculous how _long_ this has been in the making. Bucky’s just about to make a move for Steve’s lips again when they’re interrupted. He steps back a little so that they’re no longer in the same space, but Bucky locks their fingers together because he _can._

 _“Sirs, pardon my interruption, but Dr. Sian would like me to confirm the schedule change for today’s session with Captain Rogers,”_ JARVIS intones.

“...wonder if I can get away with cancelling today…” Steve mumbles, eyes trained on their hands.

“No, you should go, it’s good for you. We can talk later,” Bucky bumps their foreheads together with a smile.

“Yeah...yeah, okay. Later.” Steve takes a breath and nods like he’s trying to convince himself to walk away.

“Go on and get ready. I’ll be here when you get back,” Bucky presses a gentle kiss to Steve’s cheek before stepping back fully and swatting Steve’s cartoon-kitten-covered ass on his way to the fridge. Steve laughs like sunlight breaking through the clouds before making his way to the bathroom.

Steve gives him a goodbye kiss on his way to therapy.

Bucky grins like he just robbed God.

It takes him all of ten minutes to stop floating on dopamine and start freaking out — in the good way — sort of. He feels giddy and bubbly inside, like his lungs are helium balloons and confetti is bursting in his heart.

Bucky’s got a few hours to kill before Steve comes back, and one part of him wants to go running to Natasha like a schoolgirl with news of her first crush: love-stupid and happy, but there’s no time constraint for this kind of thing. There’s no rush, it’s just them, in the spaces they’ve carved out for themselves, learning new ways to love each other. He doesn’t _really_ want to go tell someone; he wants to be selfish. He wants to cradle this revelation between his hands like something pure and fragile and entirely _his_ , so he ignores the first part and instead goes with the side that wants to shower and eat and clean and maybe watch some TV until Steve returns so that they can move forward, finally, together.

* * *

“Steve?” Dr. Sian looks at him with concern.

Steve shakes himself out of his thoughts. She had asked him a question, and not even one of the questions that would usually set his teeth on edge and make him strain for control, just a regular, born-from-pure-curiosity question.

“Sorry, ma’am, I was just…” Steve trails off, unable to describe just _what_ he was thinking about without turning red and giving himself away.

“Something on your mind?” Dr. Sian asks with a grin.

Steve likes her: she never pries into things he doesn’t want to talk about, but she never lets him get away with bullshit either. She has a steady, comforting presence, like his Ma, and her office always smells of freshly cut flowers and tea. Steve isn’t uncomfortable telling her the truth _per se_ , it’s more that he wants to keep this beautiful, wonderful thing secret, just until his head stops spinning. He opts for a half-truth and accepts the burden of a lie of omission.

“My relationships are changing.”

Dr. Sian waits patiently, giving him room to continue if he wants or time to change the conversation.

“With the Commandos we were more like a group of rowdy brothers, and we all knew too much to be able to go back home without finishing things, so we shared that burden…but it was _war,_ the circumstances are so exaggerated. But this feels...different?” Steve trails off.

“Different how?” Dr. Sian tilts her head slightly to the right and Steve is reminded of Bucky's sister, Becca, who was curious about everything and had an eye for detail sharper than a sniper’s.

“It feels like...family, I think,” Steve nods to himself, satisfied with the striking truth of his words. He thought he knew his teammates before, thought he understood fully their varying capacities for compassion, but Steve has never been so glad to be so wrong. And it's not just them, he realizes, he's changed too. He _wants_ those connections; he wants to have “family brunch” on Sundays and lazy dog piles after movies and quiet solidarity when a bad day decides to visit.

And the bad days only _visit_ now. Before and after he was kidnapped, it often felt that only the good days came to visit, fleeting and fragile, but now almost every day is a good day, filled with warmth and comfort and laughter.

“It's not uncommon for people who work in group environments to form familial bonds,” Dr. Sian says.

“You've worked with the Avengers for several years now, Steve. Not to imply that time and love are directly related, but you have all been under similar amounts of distress and emotional exhaustion before your kidnapping, so what’s changed?” She continues, her stare unwavering and compassionate. When Steve doesn’t immediately answer, both distracted by his wandering thoughts and attempts to string his words together, she sips her tea and waits.

“I...I didn’t _want_ to be close to them. My family died when I was twenty-three, my family fell off a train, my family finished the war, had kids, grew old, and _died_ while I slept at the bottom of the Arctic,” Steve rambles, grief crashing against his ribs, waves of familiar pain blanketing his bones before receding back into the past.

“I couldn’t...be _comfortable_ with these strangers in this strange land that claimed it was my home. I didn’t want to be here — I _wasn’t supposed to be here_ — and every second that I _was_ here felt like I was being hollowed out with a spoon. I wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough for anything to happen”. Steve pauses, “but somewhere along the way… maybe before Bucky or maybe after Tony or maybe somewhere between Natasha and Clint, but _somewhere_ in there, the loneliness quieted and the sorrow lightened enough for me to feel like I was alive again.”

There is a painful, familiar ache echoing across the landscape of his mind, but it feels distant, like it had to cross entire worlds to reach him. He glances up at Dr. Sian’s face and finds that she is looking at him in a way no one has in decades. She’s looking at him like she _sees_ him, cut open and raw and trying desperately to hold himself together, and _understands._ It’s wonderfully refreshing.

“I’m glad to be here now.” Steve adds quickly; a grin playing at the edge of his lips.

“I’m glad of that. You deserve happy days, soaked in sunshine,” Dr. Sian leans forward to the tea set on the table between them.

“Tea?” She asks.

“Please,” Steve replies, eyes moving over the slanted sunlight hitting the bookshelves — they’re beautifully modern with gradient blue paint going from the bottom up. The shelves are also charmingly cluttered with various small plants, books, sculptures, and models. Almost every other time Steve comes in, the knicknacks have changed in some way or another; a living catalogue of Dr. Sian’s heart. Steve’s eyes catch on a small statue of two hands holding a lotus bulb in a glass box. It's old, judging by the discoloration of the metal, but it looks like it's been lovingly cared for: the glass is spotless and the statue shines.

Steve thinks of the apartment he shares with Bucky. The record collection cradled between ballerina bookends, the stack of cookbooks on the counter, the fairy lights wrapped around their bar counter, and the vintage movie posters on their walls. Bucky did that, made their apartment feel like _home,_ filled it with personality and warmth and _softness._

“Would you like to see it?” Dr. Sian holds out a cup of tea and nods at the statue box. She gets up before Steve can answer, plucking it from the shelf with careful fingers.

“My wife travels a lot, mostly to see her parents and get away from the city, but she always brings me back something, even if she just went on a hike in Canada for the weekend,” Dr. Sian explains while she unlatches the glass. Her hands speak of tenderness and love as she removes the statue and offers it to Steve. He holds it gently, wonderment and awe in his expression. It's heavier than it looks, but the detail is astounding.

“Do you get lonely?” Steve blurts out before he can rethink his question. He immediately feels his face heat up and he distracts himself by looking at the small statue in his hands. They sit quietly for a few moments and Steve gets lost in the artistry of the carving and the faint imprints of carving knives, the tools of a Master. By the time she is ready to answer, Steve has already almost forgotten his question.

“In order to be lonely, there must be _absence_ and _illusion_ . Loneliness doesn’t grow when the heart has never been full, it only blooms when something has been _removed_ . We trick ourselves into believing that the ache of loss is equivalent to aching over _what_ has been lost, but I don’t miss the growing list of too-quiet days, I miss the noise of her chaos.” Dr. Sian rotates her wedding band pensively.

“My wife is a wild soul, she vibrates on a different frequency than the rest of us; it’s easy to feel swept up in her tide or left behind in her wake, especially when she gets wrapped up in projects. But she’s never removed from me, not really, not in any way that matters, so my loneliness, built of twigs and hay, falls apart under the truth.” She finishes, satisfaction in her answer and her lesson radiating from her posture. Steve thinks of Pepper and Bruce, of the melancholic solidarity they pass back and forth like a beloved book, hidden in gentle gestures and snarky smiles. He tries to imagine the vacuum left behind in the wake of Tony’s personality, and then he is silently grateful that they have each other.

Steve feels thin indentations on the base of the statue and flips it over gently. The inscription is written in a language he can't immediately recognize. He wants to ask, but doesn't want to intrude anymore than he already has. She doesn’t get paid to indulge him and yet, Steve is all the more thankful for the indulgence.

 _“Even now in the glass of my mind...”(1)_ Dr. Sian chuckles, “that's what it says. It’s from one of her favorite books.”

Steve hands back the statue with reverence and his eyes dart over the bookshelves again, wondering what stories the trinkets are tied to.

“Thank you for telling me,” Steve says quietly. Dr. Sian simply nods in response, but doesn't say anything more, letting Steve lead the conversation at his pace.

They talk about other things for the remainder of their time and Steve feels more settled in his bones when he leaves. Not as giddy or nervous as before, and not so eager to cling to Bucky and never let go for fear that his memory of this morning is an illusion. He climbs onto his motorcycle and drives home with a straight back, soaking in the unchanging sounds of the city and only speeding a _little_ bit.

* * *

Bucky is lounging on the wide chaise lounge, luxuriating in the mid-winter sun like an afternoon cat. There is electricity buzzing just under his skin and he feels like he could shake apart at any second, but he’s already cleaned and eaten and showered. He has to try to relax; he has to _focus._

This is Steve. Stevie. Punk Rogers. Best friend. Asshole. Artist. Fighter. Funny. Stubborn. Generous. Sarcastic. Breathtaking.

_This is Steve._

The elevator doors open. Between stuttered breaths, Steve is standing behind Bucky’s head, looking down at him with that stupid Sunshine-and-Rainbows-and-Puppies smile. Steve looks bright-eyed and _young_ : his hair is windswept and messy, his cheeks are apple red, and his smile is wide and _free._ Bucky’s heart beats a little faster and the electric hum in his bones sings with delight.

“Can I help you?” Bucky stretches out and sinks into the cushions; a bold invitation. Steve gets that dangerous look in his eye, the one that says Bucky is going to have regrets soon. It’s the same look Steve gave him right before they went swimming in the _Lac de Places de Moulin_. In the middle of winter. Right after they burned a HYDRA base to the ground. He sheds his jacket and maneuvers them so that Bucky’s head ends up in his lap and his back is pressed into the inner corner of the couch.

“Comfy?” Bucky digs his head into Steve’s thigh and drops his full weight into the couch, already beyond comfortable himself. The position is familiar and old, bred in the blooming seasons of Brooklyn between daydreaming boys. Steve hums in response, deft fingers tugging and smoothing Bucky’s drying hair. His eyes close. His muscles relax. A low hum of satisfaction vibrates through his chest.

“So,” Steve murmurs a few minutes later. Bucky opens his eyes, blinks away the stardust, and not for the first time, the first thing he sees is Steve.

“So,” Bucky responds.

The air between them feels tight, coiled like a snake before the charmer: mesmerizing and dangerous. Bucky’s eyes trace to Steve’s lips, always bright pink and luscious, but now Bucky also knows that they’re soft like rose petals and taste vaguely like lemons. He wants to know infinitely more.

“New Years?” Steve asks, mirth sparkling in his eyes.

Bucky rolls his eyes and moves his right hand just enough to poke Steve in the thigh when he says, “You kissed me first.” Steve flicks his nose in retaliation before leaning down and kissing Bucky’s nose shyly.

“Nu-uh,” Bucky says when Steve starts to move back. He catches Steve’s sharp jaw in his hand and goes for the lips. It’s awkward at first: the angle is odd and their mouths are sloppy with silliness, and yet Bucky still feels a heady rush as their lips come together again. It feels like they’ve been doing this for years, _decades_ , and yet no faded photograph solidifies in Bucky’s mind. Everything about this is new and _fantastic,_ but also familiar and comfortable. Bucky fears, in the part of his mind that is not solely dedicated to kissing Steve Rogers, that they are moving too fast, that this is not how relationships work, that it shouldn’t be this easy and seamless, that the world is too indifferent to let them have this one. But alarms are not ringing, people are not screaming, and nothing is falling from the sky; they get to have this, it seems. They get to have _normal._

They pull apart after a few moments, only enough to look at each other without crossing their eyes. They are tangled up like mangrove roots, folded into and around each other.

“What now?” Steve asks, warm breath blowing gently over Bucky’s face. His nose crinkles with exaggerated disgust: Steve’s breath smells like stale coffee and mint. Steve laughs in his face, forcing him to endure more of the smell until Bucky breaks down and they dissolve into giggles.

_What now?_

Every painful step of Bucky’s recovery came with that question attached. What now, _what next?_ He used to feel haunted by it, like what he had accomplished wasn’t good enough. Until he realized that the question wasn’t a taunt, but rather a benediction.

He thinks the answers then and now are the same.

“Anything,” Bucky replies, right before he pulls Steve into another kiss, which leads to another, and another, and another…

They do, eventually, stop. _After_ they moan and gasp each others names into the hot air between them. _After_ they stumble and accidentally pinch and giggle. _After_ they wind up shirtless and all but undone, Steve resting between Bucky’s legs, on top of his chest, kiss bitten and content.

“Chinese?” Bucky rubs his nose back and forth between the corner of Steve’s mouth and his temple.

“Nah,” Steve shakes his head and dislodges Bucky’s path. He starts pressing kisses into Bucky’s chest, tracing his lips along the lines of his clavicle. Bucky leans his head back against the cushions and his eyes trace the long shadows on the ceiling. The soft feeling of skin brushing against skin, of Steve brushing against _him,_ feels more intimately nice than it does anything else.

“Indian?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Italian?”

“Hmm…”

“Hm?”

“...No.”

“Steve!” Bucky cries out, only half-heartedly exasperated.

“What do you want to eat?” Bucky wiggles impatiently. Steve shrugs and settles down with his ear against Bucky’s heart, eyes to the dimming skyline.

“Guess we’ll just starve then,” Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and settles back down. He turns his head and watches the city light up as the night grows long. Their breathing evens out and deepens; their limbs grow lax and sleepy under the weight of lazy affection. Bucky can feel himself gently falling asleep under the warm weight and affection.

“I wanna take you out.” Steve says suddenly.

“Yeah?” Bucky squeaks out, excitement and giddy nervousness igniting in his blood.

“Yeah. Let’s go dancing,” Steve replies softly. He is solid and heavy and completely relaxed in Bucky’s arms. His heart swells because _this_ is all he wants for Steve, for happiness to soak into his skin like an everlasting tan. He wants Steve to make plans with no tactical advantage; he wants Steve to _want_ the small pleasures that make life more meaningful.

Bucky wants to be a reason for Steve’s happiness.

“Okay,” Bucky whispers, trying to get his heart under control because he _knows_ Steve can hear it beating too fast. They don’t say anything else after that, choosing instead to wade gently into these unknown waters quietly and with care. The sun sets, but the hazy afterglow of Manhattan remains, staining the sky a color somewhere between blue and black. Time feels liquid and slow. Minutes or hours pass unheeded by the two men, tangled into each other.

“I love you,” Steve says.

Their stomachs will demand sacrifice, their friends may request their presence, and they’re going to have to have an _actual conversation_ about just _what_ they’re doing and desiring, but for now, on the first day of the rest of their lives, they can just _be._

“I love you too,” Bucky replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(1) Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, originally quoted as such: “One glance at her, even now in the glass of my mind, and I want to take off and travel with her.” ___


End file.
